10 YOUNG QUEENS
I've been trying to moderate my drink and drugs intake so I can get some kip in and feel less para. My old mate Donny Armstrong has come up to see my auld man. They've been arguing about politics. As a revolutionary, Donny tends to hunt out the single-issue punters in the community groups, like the auld man, and attempt to convert them to fully-fledged revolutionary politics.
— Some Mars Bar you've got yourself there, man, Donny says.
— You should see the other guy, I say, all cocky. It sounds good. The other guy, Hobo, has a face like a bairn's powdered arse and is about as concerned at the prospect of me looking for him (and I'm not looking too hard) as the continental big guns are at Hearts returning to European action.
The auld man exasperates him, though. Donny has to admit defeat here. Norma pops her head around the door and my father slyly slips away. Donny turns his attention to me, trying to recruit me into the 'party'. — You can't skate over the surface of social reality all your life, he says. This depresses me, it's revolutionary speak for: Ye cannae be a smart cunt aw yir life.
The answer, according to Donny, is to build the revolutionary party. This is done by militant political activity in the workplaces and communities at the point of oppression. I ask him how effective he feels this has been, and whether the collection of students, social workers, journalists and teachers that seem to make up the membership of his party constitutes a fair cross-section of the proletariat.
— Granted man, but it's the downturn, he says, as if that explains it.
— How is it, though, that Militant seem to be able to get ordinary punters while you lot get all those middle-class types?
— Look man, I'm not going to slag Militant, cause there's enough sectarianism on the left, but.. .
He launches into a long and bitter attack on the politics and personalities of Scottish Labour Militant. I'm thinking, what can I do, really do for the emancipation of working people in this country, shat on by the rich, tied into political inaction by servile reliance on a reactionary, moribund and yet still unelect-able Labour Party? The answer is a resounding fuck all. Getting up early to sell a couple of papers in a shopping centre is not my idea of the best way to chill out after raving. When people like Penman, Denise, Veitchy and Roxy are ready to join the party, then I'll be ready. The problem is, there's too many, God rest his soul, Blind Cunt types in that sort of thing. I think I'll stick to drugs to get me through the long, dark night of late capitalism.
Donny goes, the both of us totally drained by our arguments. He does look healthy and happier than me though; he has a glow to him. The involvement in the process of political struggle may indeed be quite liberating in itself, irrespective of the results it yields, or rather doesnae yield. I'm still pondering it all an hour later when Ronnie shows up. I haven't seen him since that regrettable incident last weekend.
He touches my stitches lightly, and smiles with a weary compassion. Then he shuts his eyes and wiggles his finger in the air.
— Ron, man, ah'm really sorry about the other night... I start, but he puts his finger to his lips and shakes his head slowly. He staggers through the hallway, into the living-room. He's on the couch like an American heat-seeking missile onto a Bagh dad orphanage. Nice one, Ronnie.
— Jellied, Ron?
He shakes his head slowly and blows out heavily through tightly-puckered lips. I put on a video and he dozes. I put on a second one and I fall asleep in the middle of it. I feel a tapping on the sole of my foot, and look up to see Ronnie going. He raises his thumb slowly, mumbles something and vanishes into the night.
Deek comes in. — Whair's Dad? he asks.
— No sure. He went oot wi Norma fi upstairs.
Deek rolls his eyes and leaves.
I stagger up to bed.
The next day I've arranged to met Denise in the Beau Brummel.
Denise is in a state of transformation from one queen stereotype into another. I suppose he's no a wee laddie any mair. None of us are. It comes home to me when he walks into the Beau Brummel with a pair of young queens who look exactly like Denise used to look. Denise, on the other hand, looks like a cruel scoutmaster in his flak jacket.
— Drink fir ma friend. A whisky, he snaps at one of the young queens. The wee buftie immediately springs up to the bar. I was going to say something because I don't really like whisky but Denise always loves to decide what will be the appropriate drink for his friends based on his view of how they look and I hate to spoil his sense of theatre. My need to have Denise exhibit that sense of theatre is stronger than my need to exercise freedom of choice in my drug-taking. Therein lies an illustration of the bigger problem.
— I saw your ma the other day, I tell him.
— My Ma! How is she!
— No bad.
— Whair wis this? The scheme?
— Naw, in toon.
— Ah'll huv tae arrange tae meet her in toon fir a cup ay tea. Ah cannae be bothered gaun tae the scheme. Too fuckin depressin. Ah fuckin hate that place.
Denise never really fitted in back there. Too camp; too much of a superiority complex. Most people hated that, but I loved him for it.
One of the bufties makes a terrible error of protocol and puts on Blondie's 'Denis', as in 'Denise Denee'. This upsets the fuck out of Denise.
— WHAE PIT THAT OAN!? WHAE?! he stands up and screams over at the juke box.
One of the young queens apologetically pouts, — Bit Din-e-e-e-esssse, you sais the other night thit is wis yir favourite song, mind the other night, at Chapps?
The other buftie boy looks on in malicious enjoyment at his friend's discomfort.
Denise clenches his fists then lets them fall by his side. — THE WHOLE POINT IS THIT IT'S MA FAVOURITE SONG! AH'M THE ONLY YIN THIT'S ALLOWED TAE PIT OAN THAT FUCKIN SONG! BATTER YIR FUCKIN CUNT IN, SON! He shakes his head angrily, — Dinnae bother ays, jist dinnae fuckin bother ays, son, he dismissively hisses. The disgraced young queen slopes off. Denise turns to me and says, — Young queens, ten a penny, the fuckin wee jessies.
The observation of such protocol is crucial with Denise. Everything has to be done just right. I remember several years ago he gave me a blank cassette tape to record this Fall record. — Remember, he told me, — dinnae write the track list doon oan the index caird. Write it doon oan a separate bit ay paper n ah'11 copy it oantae the index caird. Ah've goat a special wey ay daein it. It's only me thit kin dae it.
I cannae really remember whether I genuinely forgot, or whether I did it deliberately to wind him up, but I biroed the track listings doon ontae the cassette card. Later, when I presented the tape tae him, he freaked. It was too mad. — WHIT'S THIS? AH FUCKIN TELT YE! AH FUCKIN TELT YE NO TAE WRITE THUM IN, he hissed. — IT'S SPOILED NOW! THE WHOLE THING'S NAE FUCKIN USE NOW!
He crushed the tape and case under the heel of his boot. — FUCKIN SPOILED EVERYTHING!
How uptight is the cunt?
We have a few drinks. I don't mention Olly to him. His queen patter with the young guys is mildly amusing for a while. Gay punters that hang around Chapps, The Blue Moon and The Duck hate Denise. His stereotypical queen stuff embarrasses most homosexuals. Denise loves to be hated. They detested his high-camp act back in the scheme. It was funny then, funny and brave, but now it starts tae grate and I make my excuses and depart, wondering, as I leave, what he's going to say about me behind my back.
11
LOVE AND SHAGGING
Olly's mate Tina was a friendly, nervy, high-adrenalin lassie who was always on the move; talking, chewing gum, checking out everything and everyone with sharp, hawk-like eyes. At the party at Sidney's, Olly said, in a mock-schoolie way: — She fancies yir mate. Ronnie.
— Fuck off, Tina hissed, either embarrassed or pretending to be. Ronnie was sitting on the floor watching the Christmas tree, mesmerised by it. He'd taken a few jellies. Sidney, somewhat surprisingly, was jellied as well. He explained to me that he'd been getting 'too uptight' about the flat ge
tting trashed and had been giving the party 'negative vibes', so he had taken some jellies to 'mellow out'.
Olly then said to me, — If that sick poof Denise comes up, don't you talk tae him! No while ah'm around anyway!
I found this a bit irritating and offensive. Her feud with Denise had nothing to do with me. — Of course I have to talk to Denise, he's my friend. I practically fuckin grew up wi Denise. And stop aw this homophobic shite: it's a total drag.
She then said something which frosted me over. — No wonder people say you're a smart cunt, she hissed, storming away.
— What. . . who said ... I moaned at the back of her head as she vanished into the kitchen. I was too mellow to get para; but her words rang around in ma head and the paranoia would eventually come, as sure as night follows day. I'd be sitting tomorrow at my old man's trying to pretend that I wasn't feeling sick and miserable and worthless, and her words would shudder through my system like psychic spears and I'd agonise over their meaning, relentlessly torturing myself. I've a lot to look forward to.
I started talking to Spud Murphy, a mate of Raymie Airlie's. I like listening to Spud and Raymie. They've got a few years on me, they've been there, and they're still around. Survivors. You can't really learn anything from people like that, but their patter's okay. Spud's still lamenting getting ripped off by his best mate ages ago. It was a junk deal, and his mate absconded with the loot. — Best mates, likesay, man, best mates, ken? Then the cat goes n pills a stunt like that. Completely doss, likesay. Ken?
— Aye, ye cannae even trust mates these days, I said, the realisation bringing on my first substantial para attack of the day. I finger my scar. Thank fuck for Hobo; at least I've got a bit of concrete evidence for my paranoia.
— It's jist, likesay, drugs, man. It's horrible, likes, but whenever thir's collies involved friendships go oot the windae, ken?
We spraff on for a bit, then Tina comes over to us, a bit drunk, waving a Diamond White bottle in her hand. — Ah'm gaunny fire intae yir mate, she says, matter-of-factly, before going over and sitting beside Ronnie. The next time I look they're necking, or rather, Tina's eating Ronnie's face.
— Could dae wi somebody firin intae me like that, man, that would dae me barry, likesay, Spud said.
— Naw, ah'm disillusioned wi women. I'm useless in relationships, Spud. I'm a selfish fucker. Thing is, I never, ever pretend tae be anything other than a selfish fucker. Take Olly there, I ventured.
— That wee goth love-cat ye came wi, likesay? he asked.
— She played the saint. Took ays hame eftir ah'd been glessed by that Hobo cunt.. .
— That sounds a good woman, man. Ye want tae hud oan tae her, likes.
— Ah bit listen tae this: one decent act ay kindness and she thinks that gies her the right tae tell me how tae live ma life. It's: nae collies, get a job, go tae college, buy some clathes, dinnae speak tae people ah dinnae like, even if yuv kent them yir whole fuckin life ... aw that typical burd shite, man. How bad is that?
— That's a bit seriously radge, catboy. No that ah kin really gie much advice, ken? Chicks n me, likes, sortay oil n water, ken? Ah'd love us tae mix mix mix a wee bit better, but somehow the gig jist nivir quite materialises, ken?
Olly came back over to us. She put her arms around me. — I want to go home, she whispered. She thought she was Joan of Arc. — I want to go home and fuck you.
I shuddered in fear at the thought. I'd had far too many drugs over the weekend. I couldn't be bothered shagging. It just seemed so pointless, a total waste of time. We didn't have strong feelings for each other, we were just playing out time waiting for the real thing tae come along. I dinnae like shagging just for the sake of it; I like to make love. That means with somebody I love. There are times, sure, when the bag just needs to be emptied, but no when you're full of drugs. It was like the other day when we were shagging; it was just like two skeletons rattling away the gither. I just thought: why the fuck are we doing this?
The thing that worried me even more than the shagging was staying round at Olly's for any length of time. I disliked her friends. They were hostile and offhand to me, which didn't really bother me, in fact I enjoyed it. What fucked me over though was the way they patronised her. They were all City Cafe types: waitresses, insurance salesmen, local government clerks, bar persons et cetera, who wanted to be musicians, actors, poets, dancers, novelists, painters, playwrights, filmmakers, models and were obsessed with their alternative careers. They played their dull tapes, recited their crap poems, strutted around like peacocks and pontificated with endless dogmatism on the arts that they were excluded from. The thing was, Olly lent herself to this patronisation. Her friends wanted to be like somebody else; she only wanted to be like them. I thought I had low ambition, but she couldn't see what limited horizons she had. When I mentioned this I was dismissed as jealous and bitter.
We got into an argument and I ended up staying the night at Roxy's place. I told him about her friends and he said: — So you should be perfectly at home there, man.
He clocked my tense, hurt expression and said: — Fuck me, tell ays you're no nippy the day. Only joking man. But I knew he wasn't. Or maybe I was just being para. Or maybe not. I was still full of drugs and hadn't slept properly in donks.
Anyway, I gave Olly as wide a berth as I could until I got it together. I tried to chill at ma old man's which was difficult as the house was always full of his campaign mates, or Deek's pals. Deeks pals never seemed to drink or take drugs or go raving. They 'werenae intae that shite'. All they did was nothing, they just sat around and did nothing. Deek had passed his Civil Service Executive Officer exams, but showed no excitement about it, or any interest in a career. I admired his nihilism relating to work, that made sense to me, but he and his pals seemed to have no interest in anything at all. Everything was 'shite' to them: drugs, music, fitba, violence, work, shagging, money, fun. They seemed to be a bunch of completely isolated basket-cases.
Olly harassed me on the phone. She was rambling and expansive when she talked about what her friends had done or were doing, but when she focused on us she always became tense and confrontational. It would end up with her abusing me over the phone, then slamming it down as if she was the aggrieved party.
— Woman problems? my dad would laugh. — Never run for a bus or a woman, son. There's always another one coming around the corner.
A great strategy that one. That's why he's never had his hole in fourteen years since my Ma fucked off. That's why one day they'll probably find him dead through hypothermia at a bus-stop.
After a few days of living on tea, chocolate digestives, McCain's oven chips and Presto's pizzas, I feel strong enough to go into town. I've read David Niven and Maureen Lipman's biographies, both absolutely fucking dreadful. I take them back to the library and ask the librarian if he can keep the Viv Nicolson biography back for me. I don't want to take it into town, as I might end up wrecked and lose it. Besides, I hate carrying things about. He refuses, saying I'll have to take my chances. I board a bus and start to feel horny with the vibrations from the engine. I make a mental list of all the women I'd like to have sex with. I feel awkward and self-conscious getting off the bus with an erection. It subsides, however, as I stand at the West End at a bit of a loss as to what to do next. Shoplifting is a possibility, and I try to think of what I need, so I can go to the appropriate store rather than just go somewhere and chory for chorying's sake.
I see Tina. It's good to see someone by chance in town. — Tina! Where ye off tae?
— Gaunny git something fir Ronnie. It's his birthday oan Thursday.
Of course it is. I remember Ron's birthday. I get him fuck all, not even a card, but I always remember the date. — How's it gaun wi yous pair? I ask, raising my brows in what I hope is a light, playful gesture.
— It's awright, she says, chewing briskly and never looking at me as we walk side by side up Lothian Road, — but he's ey jellied aw the time. Ah mean, the other week, we goes tae
the pictures. Ah peys tae git us in. Damage, that wis the film, likes. He jist sat there asleep fir the whole film, and ah couldnae git him awake once it finished. Ah jist fuckin well left urn.
— That's wise, I reflected. I liked this lassie, I empathised with her. I was still feeling a bit strung out, but my load seemed lighter these last few days. I realised why: no Ronnie. Tina had taken a considerable burden off my shoulders.
— Another thing, ah took urn up tae ma hoose the other day. He jist crashed oot oan the couch. Never even spoke tae ma Ma or ma Dad. Jist nodded at thum, then sortay dozed oaf.
— No the wey tae make a favourable impression, I ventured.
— Well, ma Dad never really bothers that much aboot people talkin, but if he thinks it's drugs, he'll go pure radge. Mibbe next time you n Olly could come up wi ays, so that they can see that aw ma pals n Ronnie's urnae intae drugs.
It was the first time in my life that I'd ever been asked tae provide a character reference of this sort. While touched, I was a little wary and a bit doubtful of Tina's powers of observation. — Eh, ah'm no sure that ah'm the best person for a home visit. Did Olly no tell ye about how ah met her, how she took ays back that time?
— Aye, but that wisnae your fault. At least you can stey straight sometimes, she said.
We parted and I felt great for a bit. After reflecting why I felt great, I started to feel terrible. It seemed that drug-taking over the years had reduced me to the sum total of the negative and positive strokes I received from people; a big blank canvas others completed. Whenever I tried to find a broader sense of self the term: A SMART CUNT would come back to mind.