Ma heid’s fucked. Aw ah dae is read. Even started writin a poem the other night. Ya cunt, ah’m turnin intae Rab Birrell. The kind ay radge that might say ‘Presence is Led Zeppelin’s best album’ when they ken is it fuck Led Zeppelin’s best album, but just tae show oaf their poxy debatin skills.
Fair lookin forward tae this game now, distract ays fae the shaggin thoughts. Ah’m aw set tae meet up wi the Birrells n that, but ah didnae want distracted fae ma readin so ah switched off the cheeky phone last night. Now thaire’s a stack ay calls, maist ay them fae Yvette, the Ginger Bastard’s ma, whae’s gaun crazy, insistin that ah meet her first thing this morning.
Ah makes some porridge, cuttin back oan the salt for this ticker, watchin the early-morning Scottish news. Ah recognise the building the cameras ur at, so ah turns it up n it’s a feature oan the missin Bowcullen Trinity whisky, and how an anonymous party is offerin a reward ay twenty grand for information leadin tae its return. Ronnie. Well, ah suppose when you’ve flung that much dosh away on it, a wee bit mair means fuck all. Good tae ken but; money in the fuckin bank. But ah’ve got other things tae think aboot, so ah gits Yvette on the blower. — It’ll huv tae wait, ah’m gaun oot tae Hampden but, ay. Cup final.
— I know what’s going on, Terry, but we have to meet first, n she sounds awfay upset.
So we meets in this place up the Old Town, the posh studenty gaff oan George IV Bridge whaire they say that Harry Potter burd jist sat doon in a corner n wrote aw they books. N ah ken ah’m no gaunny like this particular fuckin story cause Yvette’s look reminds ays ay the one she gied ays aw they years back. When she telt ays she wis up the stick. Ah wisnae fuckin well chuffed. Ah mind ay sayin: ‘A bit ay ma spunk takin root in ye might say that ah’m good faither material tae you. Tae me it says thit you’re nae good at swallayin pills.’
But she tells ays what the fuck’s been gaun oan wi the Ginger Bastard n ah cannae believe ma ears. — Eh wis what?
— He was caught with his hand up a girl’s skirt.
— What? How? Ah mean, whaire?
— At school.
So ah’m sortay thinkin aboot him, n ah goes, — Well . . . it could be worse –
— How could it be worse! He’s fucking nine years old!
Ah cannae help it, n even though ah ken it’s wrong n spells big trouble, part ay me is thinkin: ah’ve nivir been sae proud ay any cunt in ma life as ah am ay the Ginger Bast—wee Harry right now. Even Jason, when eh graduated fae that uni in law.
She’s far fae chuffed but. — He’s been harassing several girls on the phone and on Facebook, asking them to send him pictures of them naked. Apparently all the boys are at it now. It’s one of those sickening developments that needs to be stopped right now, and I’m not having my son, our son –
That sets ma warnin bells oaf. — How is it that he’s the yin gittin singled oot but? Sounds like victimisation tae me.
— What?
— Ginger-heided bairns stand oot. Thaire’s some cunts thit think thir fair game tae discriminate against, n it’s no right!
— It’s nothing to do with that! It’s because he’s the one who’s been approaching the girls directly!
Ya cunt, that wis me that telt him tae dae that! Be a fuckin man n dae it tae thair face, ah sais tae um. Then ah’m thinkin aboot Donna, and what they cunts ah did ower oan the estate wir sayin aboot her. Whae telt them tae act like that tae lassies? Life is fuckin complicated these days. — Laddies are different – ah read aw aboot it. Science. We’re prone tae hormonal surges fae an early age. Bursts ay testosterone in the napper. Youse jist git emotional wi hormones once a month, we have tae suffer it constantly. It’s bound tae make him a bit radge.
— Don’t turn your feeble life-excuses into his ones! And since when did you become interested in science?
— You’d be surprised, ah goes. — But yir right; this isnae aboot me, it’s aboot our son’s future. So ah’ll talk tae um: faither tae son.
She looks totally stunned at that response. Fuck sakes, ah cannae be that much ay a useless, selfish cunt, surely tae fuck?! But then she recovers her composure, that wey that posh cunts are trained tae. — And let him know what, precisely?
— And let him know that it isnae acceptable behaviour!
— Good!
Well, she’s still no that happy, but we finish oor tea in a strained civility. Across at the next table thaire’s a couple ay muck-buckets, but thir settin up a near root, even in the medicated Auld Faithful. Ah’m glad tae get away, but ootside it’s as bad. In fact, now thit the better weather’s kicked in it’s fuckin torture. The toon’s full ay fanny. Ah huv tae try n think aboot the likes ay Doughheid or Bladesey suckin my tadger, jist tae stave oaf the erection, even wi they useless fuckin pills. Tae think thit whin ah wis wi a burd n gittin excited, ah used tae think aboot a gam fae ma auld rid-couponed mate Post Alec, tae hud back the moment, but that’s well fucked up now! Ya cunt, Freud wid be able tae fuckin well retire wi me oan ehs books!
Perr Alec, bein eatin by maggots; n that auld cunt Henry, hingin oan like the fuckin cunt eh is till the fuckin Cup final’s over. Well, ah gits doon the Business Bar n Billy n Rab are ootside and Sick Boy’s thaire n aw! — Was going to watch it on the box, but jumped on a last-minute flight. It’s not every day we get to fuck those retards in a Scottish Cup final.
— It’s no been any day we got to fuck anybody in a Scottish Cup final since 1902, Billy goes.
— Don’t be such a pessimist, Sick Boy says. — They are gambling with other people’s money and they are going tits up, history. It’s fate that we come along with a shite, struggling team on a quarter of their stolen wage bill, and hammer them into the dust. Terry?
— No really been takin that much notice.
Rab Birrell looks at ays like ah’m a bam. — Whaire huv you been: Mars?
— Might as well huv been, ah goes.
— Speaking of fucking, Sick Boy whispers, — when are you going to send this boy down? I need to audition him, as it looks like this cheque that a partner in the Ukraine sent me has miraculously cleared. I’ve rewritten the Shagger 3 script, calling it Humper, with a new protagonist who is Shagger’s brother. Didnae want to wreck the franchise and shut the door on Curtis in case it doesn’t work out for the little ingrate in the San Fernando Valley.
— I’ll get him down. But ye no want to see him up here?
— I’m on holiday, Sick Boy sais, aw pompous, — I need to spend time with my family.
Well, we gits intae the stretchy n eases oot tae Hampden. Plenty ay fuckin champers n charlie, wi nae bizzy eyes gittin through the tinted gless. It’s the only wey tae dae it. Ah hus a nice wee literary discussion aboot William Faulkner wi Rab, which hacks off Billy, n hus Sick Boy shakin ehs heid. But ah wish we’d jist steyed in the limo drivin around, cause the day goes doonhill quick eftir that.
Hibs are fuckin shite; whatever happened oot there we were gaunny lose. But we might have had a classic Cup final, a two-three or a three-four. Instead the referee fucks it right up. We’re talkin aboot it in the motor gaun back, aboot ten minutes intae the second half.
Sick Boy is gaun mental. — That little cunt Black didnae even git spoken tae by Thomson eftir elbayin Griffiths in the puss when he should have fucking walked. It’s all a big laugh between them. Ye know from that point on those cheating cunts wi thair drug n human traffickin money, peyin for players they cannae afford, ur gaunny git away with fuckin murder on the pitch as well as off it.
— You’re a bit high n mighty, Sicky, for somebody whae makes his money through scud, ah goes.
— Nothing to do with anything, Terry. He shakes his heid. — Look at that mess – we’re two down and playin shite. Just before half-time we git one back n it’s game oan. Then, straight away, that prick of a referee takes ower again, gies them a penalty which is miles ootside the box, sends off that wee doss fullback for a daft foul, which is nae worse than Black’s earlier, when the cunt just had a laugh aboot it with him. S
o it’s game ower.
— Aye, ah suppose, ah goes, lookin at the traffic slidin by ootside.
As the Birrell brothers argue, Sick Boy whispers tae me, aw cagey, — Oh, it looks like the name Lawson might still grace Perversevere Films.
— Ah telt ye, ah cannae dae scud.
— No, I had a call from your Donna. She sent down some stuff. Impressive. Definitely worth employment, certainly a chip off the old block!
Ah cannae believe it. Ah feel ma face gettin hoat. Ah’m startin tae hyperventilate. — Yir fuckin jokin, right?
— Eh . . . Sick Boy goes, — I take it this career move does not meet with parental approval?
Ah turns intae him n whispers in his ear, — She’s no daein fuckin scud!
— Parental approval is a luxury, Sick Boy pits oan that smug face, — and parental consent doesn’t apply as she’s an adult, able to make her own choices, Terry. Who’d have daughters, ay?
— She’s no daein scud, ah tells um, grabbin the lapels ay his jaykit, — cause if she does, you’ll make one last scud movie, which yi’ll star in, n it’ll be a fuckin snuff yin!
— Terry, cool yir fuckin jets, Billy shouts, as Sick Boy’s eyes bulge.
Ah loosen ma grip, and Billy stares at ays, before gaun back tae chattin tae Rab. — Jesus Christ, okay . . . okay . . . Sick Boy says, smoothin doon his jaykit. — It’s not like you to be so uptight. I never thought I’d say this, Terry, but you need tae get laid!
— Aye, well, you just back off wi her. Right?
— Point taken. But you have to tell her this, and eh cocks a finger n points at ays. — I’m not denting the lassie’s self-esteem by saying that she’s not got what it takes to be part of the Perversevere family!
— Ah will, ah goes, n ah dials Donna’s number. It goes tae voicemail but ah tell her that ah want tae see hur.
Ah’m relieved when the conversation goes back tae that fuckin shitey match. But now aw ah’m thinkin aboot is how that fuckin dirty cunt Henry’ll be laughin away in that hoaspital bed ay his. Treated ays like shite fae the fuckin start. Eh thinks ah’ll no be able tae face um, tae take the slaggin. But ah’ve made ma mind up: ah’ll fuckin well face the cunt awright!
We beats the traffic cause the driver boy is floorin it in the limo, n the game’s no long finished whin wir close tae toon. They want tae go tae the Business Bar, but ah’m askin them tae droap ays oaf at the hoaspital. — Ah thoat that wid be the last place ye’d want tae be the night, Tez, Billy says.
— Ah well, family, ay, Rab goes.
— Aye, right, ah goes.
Ah gits up tae the ward but the nurse is thaire so ah bends ower the auld cunt like ah’m gaunny kiss his heid (that’ll be fuckin right) n ah lits some gob droap fae ma mooth oantae his forehead. Ah’m watchin it runnin doon his heid, slippin tae the right as it gits tae the side ay his beak n tricklin intae his open gob.
The nurse is the yin wi seams up the back ay the stockins. Before, ah’d huv emptied a tank ay muck ower her. That’s a fuckin no-no now n ah kin feel the fresh spunk sluicin around in the baws, just overflowin like fuck.
— Try not to be too upset, Mr Lawson, she says, comin ower.
— It’s no that easy. Tell ye whae ah blame –
— I know what you’re going to say, the nurse goes, — people always blame themselves. We can never say enough to our loved ones, n she plumps up ehs pillays, n eh sortay stirs, but disnae wake.
Ah realise she thinks ah’m gaun oan aboot him, whin ah’m thinkin aboot the fitba n that cunt ay a referee. Penalty ma fuckin erse, n Sick Boy’s right: Black’s elbay oan Griffiths was a sending-off offence. N now this auld cunt lyin there, that maroon skerf entwined roond the bars at the heidrest ay the bed. A fuckin bullyin stepfaither: that’s aw that cunt ivir wis. The fuckin telly oan the swivel leg; like a fuckin first-class flight the cunt’s oan. N eh wakes up n catches us lookin at it.
— Aw . . . it’s you . . . eh goes, aw sleekit, then ehs face creases up, — Ye see the game?!
— Jist back, ay.
— That wis quick, eh sais wi a wee chuckle that shakes ehs skeletal frame. — Well, nae wonder, ay.
— Aye. How ye keepin?
— Dinnae you even pretend tae care!
— Fair dos. Glad yir fucked, ya mingin auld cunt!
— At least ah’ll go contented that ah saw Herts win the cup. Again. Against youse. At least ah kin say ah saw that.
— Aye, right.
— Five-one n aw . . .
— Aye, right.
— Yi’ll be hurtin, son. Aye ye will. All-Edinburgh derby . . . ehs weak hands come up fae under the sheets n hud up five fingers oan one hand n yin oan the other yin. — Five-one . . .
— Aye.
— Nineteen-oh-two it’s been for youse . . . you’re no gittin any younger yirself, son. Think yi’ll ever see your crowd lift the cup?
— Dinnae ken but, ay, ah goes. The funny thing is, ah realise that ah’m no really that fuckin bothered aboot the fitba, it’s aw in his mind. It dawns on ays that’s the wey it is; ye imagine it hurts the others mair than it does. Aw they years ah wasted rubbin it in aboot seven-nil on New Year’s Day, when they cunts probably wirnae even that bothered aboot it n maist likely jist thoat ah wis a bit simple. Still, it’s what it does for you that counts. What ah’m strugglin wi is a life withoot a ride, n that’s what’s hittin hame, n that abandonin stepfaither cunt’s still oan wi aw that Herts cup shite . . .
— Oor defence is as strong as the auld castle rock . . . eh whispers, then eh faws back intae a peaceful sleep. Ah’m lookin at the saline drip oan the hook. Before ah ken what ah’m really daein, ah’m pillin the curtains roond the bed. Ah unhooks the bag n ah’ve goat ma knife oot n ah’m cuttin a hole in the toap. Then ah pour oot three-quarters ay the saline intae the sink. Ah gits ma knob oot n pishes intae the bag, fillin it up, feelin it bulge oot aw warm in ma hands. It fills n some pish spills ower ma fingers. Ah huv tae limp tae the sink tae git rid ay the rest, then clean up the mess wi paper towels.
Ah gits a bit ay tape fae whaire thuv pit his well-wishin cairds oan the waw, n tapes the bag back up. Ah hing it oan the hook. It’s still yellay bit a loat darker n ye kin see strands ay spunk as thick as fuckin egg whites floatin in it.
Ah’m lookin at him in his sleep, as ah detach that morphine tube. Ah takes the wee buzzer oan the lead that eh uses tae call the nurse, and hings it behind his bed. The set ay the cunt’s mooth has changed, n eh’s awready startin tae sweat intae they jammies like a Liberty Leisure lassie oan the backshift. Suddenly his mooth flies open, n eh looks at ays. — You still here? Up tae nae good, ah bet! Then ehs face creases intae a grin. — Well, thaire’s nowt ye kin dae tae me. Ah saw ma team win the cup!
— Yir takin the pish, ah tell um, wi a big smile, as another wave ay thick sweat bursts oot fae the cunt’s pores. It’s tricklin doon his waxy skin, which is turnin a jaundice yellay before ma eyes. The rancid whiff oaffay him now, the stink ay ma pish merged wi ehs ain rottin flesh. Ehs finger snaps oan the morphine clicker. But thaire’s nae buzz fir him. The tired auld eyes faw in horror tae the thick auld vein n the absence ay the needle.
Eh sterts tae make this high-pitched noise, but it goes soft n croaky. — Ah feel terrible . . . ah feel aw dried oot n poisoned . . . git ays water . . . eh’s reachin oot, lookin tae the gless ay water, the nurse’s buzzer, the clicker oan the morphine dispenser.
But thir aw jist that wee bit oot ay reach.
— Yir really takin the pish, ah tell um, whippin the gless ay water oan the nightstand oot the road n placin it away ower by the sink, ootay reach ay they withered airms n that bony grasp.
— Terry . . . help ays . . . git the nurse . . . ah’m yir faither, son . . .
— In yir fuckin dreams, ya cunt, ah tells um, bendin ower um. — Post Alec rattled her first, back in the day; that time the snaw wis oan the ground, n ah twists that bony auld heid roond n looks right intae they eyes: thir so sae fuckin snide now. — Aye, eh pushed
they flaps aside n rammed that Christmas package in thaire. She gied ye yir hole eftir he’d been thaire first. Mind? Aye, eh nailed hur when eh wis deliverin the mail, as you fuckin well ken, ya cunt. You wir tryin tae git yir hole fir yonks n she kept knockin ye back. Must’ve been a disappointment for her eftir Alec’s welt!
Eh looks at ays, n eh cannae even make a spiteful remark. — Whaaa . . .
— Post Alec. Ah wis ehs mate. Alec Connolly. He wis ma real faither. Eh ploughed your burd, Alice, whin she wis a young thing. Yvonne’s yours, poor wee cow, but no me, thank fuck. Ah crinkle ma nose up. — You’re gantin!
Eh’s tryin tae say something, but it comes oot in a gasp, as ehs eyes bulge n eh struggles fir breath. Ah’m fuckin offski, headin oaf the ward n right doon the corridor n oot the door. As ah goes tae the car park the bars oan the cheeky phone come up n ah gits oan tae Ronnie. Ah ken that eh’s due back the day. It’s this personal assistant cunt that picks up. — Ronald Checker’s office.
— It’s Terry. Whaire’s Ronnie?
— Mr Checker is not available right now.
— Git the cunt, fuckin pronto, ah goes. — It’s an emergency. Ah need tae git oantae the links or ah’ll go fuckin crazy.
— For your information, Mr Checker had to stay in New York on urgent business. He won’t be returning to Scotland till next Friday.
— Fuck . . . Ah hing up. Then ah’m thinkin about what Sick Boy said n gits oantae Donna. — Meet ays in toon.
— Ah cannae, ah’ve goat Kasey Linn, n ah’m no gaun up thaire, it’ll be mobbed.
Of course, it’ll be fill ay they cunts. — Right, ah goes.
It’s shite no huvin the cab, but if ah go intae toon tae pick it up, ah’ll be snookered. So ah phones a couple ay taxi boys, n lucky Bladesey’s no that far, n picks ays up about fifteen miniutes later at Cameron Toll. We sticks tae the bypass, but it still takes ages tae git doon tae Broomhoose. Ah’m feel really shite now. Ah might huv nane ay that auld cunt’s DNA in me, but he’s goat a fuckin pint ay mine in him now. Ah could be fir the jail. Bladesey’s gaun on aboot the game, but ah cannae even hear a word the poor cunt’s sayin, till eh droaps ays oaf n ah square um up. Funny, when Donna comes tae the door wi nae make-up, she looks a lot younger than she is. Muh ma wis right, ah should’ve done better by her. — Jist got her settled, she goes. At least she looks better than the last time ah wis doon. There’s a better colour aboot her, and she looks mair in control ay things. The hoose is a lot tidier, n thaire’s nae shite lyin around or scumbags at the door.