by Irvine Welsh
— Something like that, Gus remarked uneasily as he procured two pints. They found a seat beside two old guys who were playing dominoes.
— Awright boeys? one of the old men smiled.
— Yeah, sure thing, buddy, Ornstein nodded.
— You're no fae roond here, the old guy laughed, and they struck up a conversation.
One of the old domino players was particularly talkative, and seemed to have a view on everything. The two philosophers gave each other a sly nod: this was their man. They started to spell out their respective arguments.
The two old guys considered the points. — It's like the boey here sais, one opined, — thir's mair tae this world thin we know about.
— S'only names bit, the other one said. — Magic, science, whit the fuck's the difference? S'only names we gie thum!
The debate raged on, and became increasingly passionate as more drink was consumed. The two philosophers felt a little drunk, and grew very antagonistic towards each other. They had scarcely realised that the argument had attracted several spectators, young men decked in blue, red and white, who had surrounded their table.
However, the atmosphere began to get tense as the younger men got more drunk and charged up with the prospect of the football match. One bloated youth in a blue football strip intervened in the discussion. He carried a distinct air of menace which unnerved the philosophers. — See yous cunts? Yous come doon here fill ah aw yir shite, treat ma da's auld mate, auld Tommy thair, like a fuckin monkey.
— The boey's awright, the boey's awright, auld Tommy said, but he was speaking to himself, in a soft drunken mantra.
— It wasn't like that, McGlone said shakily.
— You! Shut it! The fat youth sneered. — Yous come doon here wi yir silly wee arguments, n yis still canny agree. Thir's only wahn way tae settle this argument: yous two in a squerr go ootside.
— Ridiculous, McGlone said, worried at the changing vibes.
Ornstein shrugged. He realised that part of him had wanted to punch McGlone's smug face for ages. There had been a girl, at Magdalen College. McGlone had known how he felt about her but he still.. . goddamn his ass ...
The fat youth took Ornstein's shrug as a signal of acquiescence. — Squerr goes it is then!
— But... McGlone was pulled to his feet. He and Ornstein were taken to an empty carpark at the back of a shopping centre. The youths in blue formed a ring around the two philosophers.
McGlone was about to speak, to appeal for rational and civilised behaviour, but to his shock saw the Professor of Metaphysics from the University of Edinburgh bearing down on him. Ornstein struck the first blow, a solid jab to McGlone's chin. — Come on, asshole! he snarled, taking up a boxing stance.
McGlone felt a surge of rage and swung at his friend, and soon the two philosophers were tearing into each other, urged on by the swelling ranks of the Ibrox enclosure mob.
Ornstein gained the upper hand quickly. The telling blow was a powerful punch to the classical liberal's stomach, causing him to double over. Ornstein then hit the Glasgow professor on the side of the jaw. Gus McGlone staggered back from the blow, losing his footing. His head hit the paving-stones with a hollow crack so jarring you felt that outright death would be preferable to the messy range of possibilities which lay just to this side of it. The Chicago materialist, urged on by the crowd, put the boot into the prostrate classical liberal.
Lou Ornstein stood back and examined the gasping, bloodied figure of McGlone. Far from feeling shame, Ornstein had never felt better. He was basking so thoroughly in his triumph, it took him a while to recognise the dispersal of the crowd and the appearance of a police van. As Gus McGlone rose unsteadily to his feet and tried to get his bearings, he was unceremoniously bundled into a meatwagon.
The two philosophers were locked up in separate cells.
The duty sergeant was going through his routine of asking each brawling set of prisoners who the Billy and who the Tim was. If the handshake is right he will let the Billy go and slap me Tim around a bit. That way everybody's happy. The Billy gets to feel superior and delude himself that being a non-churchgoing 'protestant' is somehow important; the Tim gets to feel persecuted and indulge his paranoia about masonic conspiracies; me sergeant gets to slap the Tim around.
— Whit fit ye kick wi, mate? Duty Sergeant Fotheringham asked McGlone.
— I don't kick with any. I am Professor Angus McGlone, John Pulanzo Professor of Moral Philosophy at the University of Glasgow.
Fotheringham shook his head. Another bampot turfed out the nuthouse under this community care bullshit. — Aye, of course ye are son, he said encouragingly, — n ye know who ah am?
— No ... McGlone said unsteadily.
— Ah'm David Attenborough. N ah'm used tae dealin wi fuckin animals. Animals like you that terrorise the public . . .
— You stupid bloody fool. You don't know who I am! I could get you into serious trouble. I sit on several government committees and I number... McGlone never got to finish the sentence. He was silenced by another digging blow to his stomach and taken to the cells where he was detained before being charged with breach of the peace.
Lou Ornstein, who was on his best behaviour with the police, and whose story was believed due to his accent, emerged from the station without being charged. He made his way to the underground. He had never known that he could fight, and had learned something about himself.
A small youth came up to him. — Ah saw you fightin this eftirnin, big man. Ye were magic, so ye wir.
— No, Ornstein replied, — I was unknown science.
DISNAE MATTER
Ah wis it that Disneyland in Florida, ken. Took hur n the bairn. Wi me gittin peyed oaf fi Ferranti's, ah thoat it's either dae somethin wi the dough or pish it doon the bog it the Willie Muir. Ah saw whit happened tae a loat ay other cunts; livin like kings fir a while: taxis ivraywhair, chinkies ivray night, cairry-oots, ye ken the score. N whit dae they huv tae show fir it? Scottish Fuckin Fitba Association, that's what, ya cunt.
Now ah wisnae that keen oan Disneyland, bit ah thoat: fir the bairn's sake, ken? Wish ah hudnae bothered. It wis shite. Big fuckin queues tae git oan aw the rides. That's awright if ye like that sortay thing, but it's no ma fuckin scene. The beer ower thair's pish n aw. They go oan aboot aw thir beer, thir Budweiser n aw that; its like drinkin fuckin cauld water. One thing ah did like aboot the States though is the scran. Loadsay it, beyond yir wildest dreams, n the service n aw. Ah mind in one place ah sais tae hur: Fill yir fuckin boots while ye kin, hen, cause whin wi git back hame will be livin oafay McCain's oven chips till fuck knows when.
Anywey, it this fuckin Disneyland shite, this daft cunt in a bear suit jumps oot in front ay us, ken? Wavin ehs airms aboot n that. The bairn starts fuckin screamin, gied ur a real fright, ken? So ah fuckin panels the cunt, punches the fuckin wide-o in the mooth, or whair ah thought ehs mooth wis, under that suit, ken? Too fuckin right! Disneyland or nae fuckin Disneyland, disnae gie the cunt the excuse tae jump oot in front ay the bairn, ken.
Thing is, these polis cunts, fuckin guns n aw ya cunt, nae fuckin joke, ah'm tellin ye, they sais tae ays: Whit's the fucking score here, mate, bit likesay American, ken? So ah goes, noddin ower tae this bear cunt: Cunt jumped oot in front ay the bairn. Well ootay fuckin order. The polis cunt jist says somethin aboot the boy mibbe bein a bit too keen it ehs joab, ken. The other yin sais somethin like: Mibbe the wee lassie's frightened ay bears, ken?
So then this radge in a yellay jaykit comes along. Ah tipples right away thit eh's that bear cunt's gaffer, likesay. Eh apologises tae ays, then turns tae the bear cunt n sais: Wir gaunny huv tae lit ye go mate. They wir jist gaunny, likes, gie the boy ehs fucking cairds like that. This is nae good tae us, eh tells the boy. This perr cunt in the bear suit, eh's goat the head oaf now, likes; the cunt's nearly greetin, gaun oan aboot needin the joab tae pey ehs wey through college. So ah gits a hud ay this radge in the yellay jaykit n sais: Hi mate, yir ootay order here. Thir's na
e need tae gie the boy ehs cairds. It's aw sorted oot.
Mean tae say, ah banged the cunt awright, bit ah didnae want the boy tae lose ehs joab, ken. Ah ken whit it's fuckin like. It's aw a great laugh whin they chuck that redundancy poppy it ye, bit that disnae last firivir, ken. Aw they doss cunts thit blow the dough oan nowt. Thuv goat mates they nivir kent they hud — till the fuckin hireys run oot. Anywey, this supervisor radge goes: S'up tae you mate. You're happy, cunt keeps ehs joab. Then eh turns tae the boy n sais: Yir fuckin lucky, ah'm tellin ye. If it wisnae fir the boy here, ken, ye'd be piclrin up yir cairds, but this is aw American, likesay, ye ken how aw they doss cunts talk, oan the telly n that.
The cunt ah gubbed, this bear cunt goes: Really sorry, mate, ma fault, ken. So ah jist sais: Sound by me. The polis n the supervisor boy fucked off n the bear cunt turns n sais: Thanks a lot, buddy. Have a nice day. Ah thoat fir a minute, ah'll fucking gie ye nice day, ya cunt, jumpin oot in front ay the fuckin bairn. Bit ah jist left it, ken, nae hassle tae nae cunt. Boy's entitled tae keep ehs joab; that wis ma good deed fir the day. Ah jist goes: Aye, you n aw, mate.
THE GRANTON STAR CAUSE
It hit Boab Coylc hard, right in the centre of his chest. He stood at the bar, open-mouthed, as his mate Kev Hyslop explained the position to him.
— Sorry, Boab, but we aw agree. We cannae guarantee ye a game. Wuv goat Tambo n wee Grant now. This team's gaun places.
— Gaun places!? Gaun places!? Churches League Division Three! It's a kick aboot, ya pretentious cunt. A fuckin kick aboot!
Kev did not like Boab's stroppy response. Surely the Granton Star cause was bigger than any one individual's ego. After all, in an open vote, he had been the one entrusted with the captain's armband for the season. The Star were challenging for promotion to Division Two of the Edinburgh Churches League. Additionally, they were only three games away from a cup-final appearance at City Park — with nets — in the Tom Logan Memorial Trophy. The stakes were high, and Kev wanted to be the man who skippered the Star to cup glory in their own backyard. He knew, though, that part of his responsibilities involved making unpopular decisions. Friendships had to be put on the back burner.
— Yir bound tae be disappointed mate ...
— Disappointed!? Too fuckin right ah'm disappointed. Which cunt washes the strips nearly every week? Eh? Boab pleaded, pointing to himself.
— C'moan Boab, huv another pint...
— Stick yir fuckin pint up yir erse! Some mates yous, eh? Well fuck yis! Boab stormed out of the pub as Kev turned to the rest of the boys and shrugged.
Before returning home, Boab went for a few unenjoyable pints of lager on his own in two other pubs. He brimmed with resentment when he thought of Tambo, who had had his eye on Boab's number 10 jersey ever since the posing cunt had got involved with the Star at the start of the season. Orange-juice drinking bastard. It had been a mistake to fill the side with wankers like that. It was, after all, just a kick about; a laugh with the mates. Fresh orange n lemonade. Fresh orange n lemonade. Tambo's nasal tones grated mercilessly in his head.
In the pubs Boab visited, he failed to recognise anybody. This was unusual. Additionally, auld drunkards who normally plagued him, looking for company, or to cadge a pint, avoided him like he was a leper.
Boab's mother was hoovering when her son returned home. As soon as she heard him at the door, however, she switched the machine off. Doreen Coyle looked conspiratorially at her husband, Boab senior, who shifted his considerable bulk in his chair and cast the Evening News onto the coffee table.
— Ah want a wee word, son, Boab senior said.
— Eh? Boab was somewhat alarmed by the challenging and confrontational tone of his father's voice.
But before Boab senior could speak, Doreen started to rant nervously.
— S'no likesay wir tryin tae git rid ay ye, son. S'no likesay mat at aw.
Boab stood there, a sense of foreboding cutting through his bemusement.
— That's enough, Doreen, Boab's father said, with a hint of irritation. — Thing is, son, it's time ye wir ootay this hoose. Yir twinty-three now, which is far too auld fir a laddie tae be steyin wi his ma n faither. A mean, ah wis away tae sea wi the Mer chant Navy at seventeen. It's jist no natural, son, d'ye understand?
Boab said nothing. He couldn't think straight. His father continued.
— Dinnae want yir mates tae think thit yir some kinday queer felly, now dae ye? Anywey, yir ma n me's no gittin any younger. Wir ent'rin a funny phase in oor lives, son. Some might say... Boab Coyle looked at his wife, — ... a dangerous phase. Yir ma n me son, we need time tae sort oot oor lives. Tae git it the gither, if ye ken whit ah mean. You've goat a lassie, wee Evelyn. You ken the score! Boab senior winked at his son, examing his face for a sign of understanding. Although none was apparent, he carried on. — Yir problem is, son, yir huvin yir cake n eatin it. N whae suffers? Ah'll tell ye whae. Muggins here, Boab senior pointed to himself. — Yir ma n me. Now ah ken it's no that easy tae find somewhair tae stey these days, especially whin yuv hud everybody else, like muggins here, runnin aroond eftir ye. Bit we'll no say nowt aboot that. Thing is, me n yir ma, wir prepared tae gie ye two weeks' grace. Jist as long as ye make sure that yir ootay here within a fortnight.
Somewhat stunned, Boab could only say, — Aye ... right...
— Dinnae think thit wir tryin tae git rid ay ye, son. It's jist thit yir faither n me think thit it wid be mutually advantageous, tae baith parties, likesay, if ye found yir ain place.
— That's it, Doe, Boab's faither sang triumphantly.-Mutually advantageous tae baith parties. Ah like that. Any brains you n oor Cathy've got, son, they definitely come fae yir ma thair, nivir mind muggins here.
Boab looked at his parents. They seemed somehow different. He had always regarded his auld man as a fat, wheezing, chronic asthmatic, and his auld girl as a blobby woman in a tracksuit. Physically they looked the same, but he could, for the first time, detect an unsettling edge of sexuality about them which he'd previously been oblivious to. He saw them for what they were: sleazy, lecherous bastards. He now realised that the look they gave him when he took Evelyn upstairs for sex, was not of embarrassment or resentment, but one of anticipation. Far from concerning themselves with what he was doing, it gave them the chance to do their own thing.
Evelyn. Once he talked to her things would be better. Ev always understood. Ideas of formal engagement and marriage, so long pooh-poohed by Boab, now fluttered through his mind. He'd been daft not to see the possibilities in it before. Their own place. He could watch videos all evening. A ride every night. He'd get another club; fuck the Star! Evelyn could wash the strips. Suddenly buoyant again, he went out, down to the call-box at the shops. He already felt like an intruder in his parents' home.
Evelyn picked up the phone. Boab's spirits rose further at the prospect of company. The prospect of understanding. The prospect of sex.
— Ev? Boab. Awright?
— Aye.
— Fancy comin ower?
— ...
— Eh? Ev? Fancy comin ower, likesay?
— Naw.
— How no? Something wasn't right. A shuddering anxiety shot through Boab.
— Jist dinnae.
— But how no? Ah've hud a bad day, Ev. Ah need tae talk tae ye.
— Aye. Well, talk tae yir mates well.
— Dinnae be like that, Ev! Ah sais ah've hud a hard day! Whit is it? Whit's wrong?
— You n me. That's whit's wrong.
— Eh?
— Wir finished. Finito. Kaput. Endy story. Goodnight Vienna.
— Whit've ah done, Ev? Whit've ah done? Boab could not believe his ears.
— You ken.
— Ev...
— It's no whit yuv done, it's whit yuv no done!
— But Ev...
— Me n you Boab. Ah want a guy whae kin dae things fir ays. Somebody whae kin really make love tae a woman. No some fat bastard whae sits oan ehs erse talkin aboot fitba n drinkin pints ay
lager wi his mates. A real man, Boab. A sexy man. Ah'm twinty Boab. Twinty years auld. Ah'm no gaun tae tie masel doon tae a slob!
— Whit's goat intae you? Eh? Evelyn? Yuv nivir complained before. You n me. Ye wir jist a daft wee lassie before ye met me. Nivir knew whit a ride wis, fir fuck sake ...
— Aye! Well that's aw changed! Cos ah've met somebody, Boab Coyle! Mair ay a fuckin man thin you'll ivir be!
— ... Eh? ... Eh? ... WHAE?... WHAE IS THE CUUUHHNNT!
— That's fir me tae ken n you tae find oot!
— Ev ... how could ye dae this tae ays ... you n me, Ev ... it wis eywis you n me ... engagement n that...
— Sorry, Boab. Bit ah've been wi you since ah wis sixteen. Ah might huv kent nowt aboot love then, bit ah sure as fuck ken a bit mair now!
— YA FAAHKIN SLAG!... YA HORRIBLE FUCKIN HING-OOT!...
Evelyn slammed the receiver down.
— Ev ... Ev ... Ah love ye ... Boab spoke those words for the first time, down a dead telephone line.
— SLAAHT! FAAHKIN SLAAAHHT! He smashed the receiver around in the box. His segged brogues booted out two glass panels and he tried to wrench the phone from its mounting.
Boab was unaware that a police squad-car had pulled up outside the phone-box.
Down at the local police station, the arresting officer, PC Brian Cochrane, was typing up Boab's statement when Duty Sergeant Morrison appeared. Boab sat in depressed silence at the foot of the desk while Cochrane typed with two fingers.
— Evening, sarge, PC Cochrane said.
The sergeant mumbled something which may or may not have been 'Brian', not pausing to look around. He put a sausage roll into the microwave. When he opened the cupboard above the oven, Morrison was angered to note that there was no tomato sauce. He despised snacks without ketchup. Upset, he turned to PC Cochrane.
— Thir's nae fuckin ketchup, Brian. Whae's turn wis it tae git the provisions?
— Eh ... sorry sarge ... slipped up, the constable said, embarrassed. — Eh.. . busy night, sarge, likes.