Glue Page 31

  We couldnae understand what the fuck it said oan the menu n nane ay the staff nor customers could speak English; this wis the sticks. It wis a bit like expectin some cunts in a pub in fuckin Peebles or Bathgate tae be spraffin ze Deutsch. Gally’s spoken German wisnae bad, but eh couldnae make heid nor tail ay this menu. In the end, wi jist took pot luck. Birrell goat loads ay sausages, Gally goat eggs n cabbage n rice, n ah goat loads ay beef and gravy wi this stuff thit wis like pickle. Wi mixed n matched soas that every cunt wis mair or less chuffed. Then eftir a few drinks wi moved oantae a posher lakeside bar n watched aw these rich auld cunts in thir pastel suits walk thir wee scabby dugs along the banks ay the lake, and aw the yachts head intae the marina and the sun go doon oan the Alps like a Leith hoor oan a sweaty knob.

  A chill got intae the air, so we headed inside for another few beers. We blethered for a bit, slaggin off Terry, as he wis the cunt missing. Billy kept yawning, and eftir a bit Gally started tae git oan ma tits: drunk, slurrin n talkin shite, askin the same questions n sayin the same thing ower n ower again, n pillin ye aboot. This wis aw the kind ay shite that we thought we’d goat away fae when we started takin E’s. Eventually, we decided tae git the cunt hame. That night ah fell intae a sound sleep between they sheets. Clear conscience, ye see.

  Ah gets wakened up by Terry in the night. He must’ve found his wey back tae the gaff. The cunt climbs intae bed wi me. — Fuck off Terry, your bed’s ower thaire . . . ah goes, but eh’s no movin, n ah’m no sharin a bed wi that dirty, tapped cunt. So ah gets oot n dives intae his. The cold wet hits ma legs. The corkscrew-heided cunt’s pished his ain fuckin bed.

  Foreskin

  It wis a terrible night, n ah’m as annoyed as fuck at Terry. The cunt wouldnae move, so ah hud tae turn the mattress over in ehs bed n try and conceal the pish, n pit the sheets ower the radiator tae dry thum oot. He just lay thaire, in a fuckin coma. Ah ripped ma sheets n blankets oaf the cunt and slept oan the overturned mattress.

  The next mornin, ah wakes up tae the sight ay No-Sae-Lean Lawson, in ehs stained Y’s, lyin oan the bed opposite. Ah goes through tae see Billy n Gally. Galloway’s up; it looks like eh’s been up aw night. Eh’s reading a German phrasebook. Billy takes ages wakin up, n struggles intae ehs tracksuit. Aw ah git is him mumblin ‘brutal’ or ‘desperate’ as eh heads oot for ehs run.

  Ah go doon tae the kitchen n get some coffee. Marcia’s doon thaire, she tells me that Wolfgang’s gone tae see some laywer aboot the sale ay the gaff. We struggle tae make polite conversation; it’s pretty clear tae us that this Fräulein feels oor presence is unwelcome, and it’s just as clear tae her that we ken this, but dinnae gie a fuck. It’s dawned oan her that she’s no gaunny be able tae shame us intae packin oor bags, so it’s jist a matter ay countin the days.

  So, we head back doon tae the local pub. It’s lunchtime, it’s a crackin day, so we sit in the busy beer garden, next tae a couple ay auld boys. Ah’m sittin in silence, thinkin aboot this part ay the world, how beautiful it is, how it was the ‘centre ay the movement’ as ma auld mate Topsy said excitedly, when ah told him we were oaf here.

  Terry kens ah’m nipped at the cunt. Ah’ve no come tae Germany tae clean up some jakey’s pish. — These German cunts are your mates, Carl, so ah thoat they’d be mair likely tae forgive us if they thoat you pished the bed. Yuv goat tae think tactically.

  — Ah dinnae ken these people, Terry, ah’ve jist met the cunts, and ah didnae pish thir fuckin bed. You did.

  Terry sticks two palms up. — You gaunny keep this fuckin strop oan aw mornin? An international comradeship ay like-minded musical souls throughout the world, Ewart, that’s yir bag, eh goes. — Tell ye what but, it’s as well ah didnae stey at ma new bird’s. She wouldnae huv been too happy if ah pished the bed at hers. We went back tae the festival but, then she stuck ays oan the train, that’s aw ah mind. Thank fuck for that cunt in the taxi . . .

  — When we git back, you sort oot they sheets, Terry. Right?

  — Chill oot, ya fuckin radge, eh goes, then winks. — Mind you, mate, ye picked a good doss. Ah’m no sae sure about that Marcia bird. A bit nippy, but nowt that a guid length willnae sort oot.

  — N you’ll sort oot they sheets. Right?

  The cunt ignores me.

  — Ye gaunny phone yir Ma ower in Saughton Mains tae git her tae come n dae them fir ye? ah snaps.

  Terry thinks for a second, as if considering the possibility. Then eh turns ehs back n starts talkin away tae the auld fellies.

  Wanker. Gally’s sittin wi this daft baseball cap eh boat yesterday. Bayern Munich. Ah think it’s jist cause they (luckily) knocked us oot in Europe. Eh looks like a community-care cunt in it. Few people look the part in these things. Especially these twats that turn them roond n pill a lock ay hair through them; at least the cunt’s no done that. There’ll be a few cunts intae burnin auld photaes, that’s for sure. Eh’s starin oaf intae space as usual, but Billy’s goat a grin oan ehs face, watchin me n Terry gittin oantae each other. — Good tae see you smilin again, ah comment.

  — Aye, ah ken, eh says, shakin ehs heid. — It’s jist this trainin . . .

  — It would git me doon, right enough, daein aw that runnin n huvin tae watch what ah ate n drank, oan hoaliday n that, ah say.

  Billy shakes ehs heid. — It’s no that, Carl. Ah normally like trainin. It’s just the last week or so, even before we came here, it’s been desperate. Ah jist feel sae tired aw the time. It isnae me, eh says ruefully. — It’s brutal, n aw this pishin aboot husnae helped.

  — What d’ye mean tired, like no well?

  — Ah dinnae feel right . . . inside. It’s like ah’ve goat some virus or something. Nae energy.

  Gally chips in at this. — What dae ye mean a virus, how the fuck kin you huv a virus?

  Billy looks at him. — Ah dinnae ken. Ah jist feel knackered. It’s desperate.

  Gally nods slowly, as if tryin tae understand, then has a wee chuckle tae himself. — Ah’ll git the drinks in. Orange juice again, Billy?

  — Jist a water.

  Thir wis a silence for a while, but it wisnae uncomfortable, it wis welcome. Terry wis sittin back aw cool, but, wi that ah’m-sure-ay-maself bearin. So ah huv tae ask. — Awright, Lawson, you win. What aboot you then, how did you git oan last night? Ah clock ehs beer gut, comin under ehs rid shirt n ower ehs blue shorts. Then ah turn n look at Billy’s washboard stomach. It disnae seem that long that thir guts looked the same. Blackpool back in eighty-six.

  Terry runs ehs hand through that corkscrew mop wi a flourish. — Spot on. Ah’m meetin her again later oan, he says, but ehs voice is trailin oaf a bit doubtfully.

  — Ye dinnae seem that chuffed, Gally says, pickin up the vibe.

  — Well, the thing is, ah’ve goat a bit ay an itchy knob. Didnae bother wi a condom, eh no, cannae fuckin well git thum here in the chemist’s.

  Ah spot a chance ay a wind-up. — Typical fuckin Pape stronghold, ah goes. One ay the great myths aboot Scotland is that it’s Protestant v. Catholic. The truth is that it’s anti-Catholic v. Catholic. Maist anti-Catholics have never been tae a church ootside weddings and funerals. Naw, ah never believed in that Protestant and Catholic shite, it’s a load ay nonsense, but these fuckin Pape cunts should come intae the twentieth century, it has tae be said. And it’s good tae noise up they Hibby bastards occasionally as well, even if not one person here is really Catholic. Ah think Birrell’s half-Catholic, like me, but ah’m no sure.

  — Wis wonderin when ye wir gaunny come oot wi the first sectarian shite ay the day . . . mind you, it’s ten o’clock already so yuv done awright, Billy tells ays. Billy’s been soakin up the sun but eh gits up and smacks the back ay ma heid, which hurts mair thin ah lit oan. That cunt’s goat heavy hands n ah’m dizzy. Bastard. Ah look oot ower the gairdin and take a deep breath ay air. Aye, ah think Billy’s Ma might be Catholic, like mine.

  — Mind you, it wis a bit itchy before last night, Terry says, moving things on. Ah’m quite glad cause ah dinnae
want tae get intae an argument aboot who’s goat the biggest support (us, used tae be thaim), the hardest mob (thaim, used tae be us), whether thir’s mair or less scruffs, yuppies, bigots, pubs, hoors, ravers, AIDS, schools, shoaps or hoaspitals in Leith or Gorgie. Fuck aw that. It’s a fuckin hoaliday.

  Gally’s face hus lit up. Ah ken that michievous demonic expression n ah’m no wrong. — The thing is bit, mate, ye do huv quite a long foreskin, eh says tae Juice Terry.

  — Eh! Terry’s aghast at this. Billy sniggers, n ah dae n aw, even though ah’m still rubbin ma heid.

  Oor Mr Galloway’s gaun aw wide-eyed n innocent-lookin now. — Jist sayin, yuv goat quite a long foreskin n cause ay that it must be harder tae keep it clean, like under the helmet n that, eh casually explains. Me n Billy smile at each other cause Juice Terry’s a bit nipped.

  Eh points at Gally. — What the fuck’s aw this aboot?

  — Well ye huv, huvn’t ye? Gally asks. The wee man’s oan a mega wind-up here.

  — Disnae fuckin well matter whether ah huv or ah huvnae. Is that any wey fir a guy tae talk aboot his mate?

  Gally’s steyin deadpan. When eh’s oan form, eh’s aboot the only cunt that’s a match for Terry in the wind-up, just oan sheer persistence.

  — Listen, mate, eh explains, — we’ve played fitba thegither fir years. Ah’ve seen your foreskin tons ay times. N before ye accuse ays ay starin it yir cock, it’s no exactly as if ye hide it under a bushel.

  — Huv tae be a big bushel tae cover his foreskin, Billy laughed.

  — Eh? Terry responded.

  Gally looks at Terry, then at me n Billy, then at Terry again. — Look, ye used tae pit fags underneath yir foreskin pretendin ye wir smokin them. That wis yir perty-piece, mind? Ye used tae see how many ye could git under it. We’ve aw seen each other’s cocks. Lit’s no deny it. Aw ah’m sayin is thit you’ve goat quite a long foreskin, as foreskins go, so that ah imagine that ye would huv tae be jist that wee bit mair careful when it came tae personal hygiene, that’s aw. Ah wis jist makin a point aboot the itchin, Gally explained, turnin back tae me as ah breks intae a snigger n wir aw laughin away.

  Aw except Terry that is. But ye never really ken wi Terry whether eh’s really upset or jist playin at it, in order tae keep the crack gaun. — You’re a sick cunt. So ye make a point ay studyin other guys’ knobs?

  — It’s no a fuckin study, Terry. It’s a casual observation, Gally tells um. — Ah dinnae look at guys’ cocks. Ah’ve jist seen yours ower the years, at school, playin fitba n that. Ah’m no makin a big thing aboot it . . .

  — It’s big enough already, Billy winks, — the foreskin that is.

  — . . . so thir’s nae need tae git so fuckin humpty, Gally adds.

  Terry’s starin coldly at him. Eh sits up in ehs seat. — So you think that’s right? He nods at the auld boys, — Tell the fuckin world aboot ma cock?

  — Naw . . . it’s no that . . . ah’m no tellin the world, ah’m . . . aw fuck . . . awright, awright, ah’m sorry. Lit’s jist droap it, Gally goes as Billy n me cackle at each other.

  Terry starts up like eh’s defendin ehsel in court. The cunt’s hud plenty ay practice ay that mind you, the thievin bastard. — So ye accept it isnae the sort ay thing guys should talk aboot, guys thit are mates, thit urnae poofs?

  — Only if you accept that yuv goat quite a long foreskin, Gally retorts.

  — Nup, nae fuckin conditions! If ah accept that, it means ah’ve accepted your right tae make the statement aboot ma cock, which ah dinnae. Understand?

  Ah think aboot this for a while. Gally does n aw; that earring’s gittin well turned. Ah dinnae ken whit Terry’s oan aboot, that the cunt wis that sensitive aboot ehs fuckin foreskin. Eh’s eywis flashin ehs fuckin knob. Eh’s goat the biggest fuckin cock here. So ah dinnae really ken what this is aw aboot, bit it seems Terry’s really nipped, like it’s gittin a wee bit oot ay hand, n Gally’s goat the sense tae see it. — Yuv goat a point, mate. Fair fucks tae Lean Lawson. Ah concede oan that, eh extends ehs hand. Terry looks at it for a bit then shakes it.

  — Thing is though, Gally goes, noddin ower at the auld German boys, — you’d be awright wi these cunts here, wi your long foreskin.

  — Eh! Terry’s outraged again. Me n Billy are pishing oorselves. Then it’s like Terry’s tryin tae fight it back but he is n aw.

  — It’d be the likes ay me thit wid’ve been up the road tae Dachau. Me wi this circumcision job.

  Ah mind ay Gally’s circumcision. Ah mind ay him showin us it in the bogs in the Last Furlong whin it still hud its stitches in. — Whit did ye git circumcised fir? Billy goes.

  — Too tight. It wis whin ah wis ridin one ay the Brook twins, Gally explains.

  — The Brook sisters, ah say fondly and Billy smiles as well. Even Terry looks a bit mair chilled. Ah fuckin love they girls: the best lassies in the world.

  — It goat so fuckin tight it jist went ping! Gally elaborates. — Up like a fuckin Venetian blind. Ah wis in agony. Ah thoat it wis jist the burst Durex wrapped roond thair at first, bit it wis way too sair. Then ah realised that it wis ma fuckin foreskin! Aye, like a fuckin broken roller blind wrapped roond the bit whaire the shaft meets the bell end, cuttin oaf the supply ay blood. Ma bell end went blue, then black. The Brook sister phoned the ambulance, they took ays up tae the hoaspital: emergency circumcision job.

  — Is it better now? Billy asked.

  Mr Andrew Galloway puckered his lips. — It wis fuckin sair at first, eh tells us, — dinnae let anybody tell ye different. Especially when the stitches are still in and ye get a hard-on in yir sleep at night. But now it’s a better ride than ever. Birds prefer it n aw. Ah’d think aboot gittin it done Terry, wi your foreskin n that. Mind you, ye ken what they say: aw foreskin, nae cock.

  — What?

  Gally pits one palm oan ehs chist n flips the other ootwards. — Aw ah’m saying is: wir no disputin thit thir’s enough breed, but is thir any meat in the sandwich?

  — Thir’s nowt wrong wi ma fuckin cock, son, Terry snaps, aw defensive again, — thir’s plenty fuckin cock which comes up right over the toap ay that foreskin whin ah’ve goat a root oan. Jist fuckin well try comparin whaire ma fuckin cock wis last night tae whaire yours wis, stuck between they sweaty palms ay yours as usual! So dinnae you fuckin well start! They flung away the wrong bit when they circumcised you, ya wee cunt.

  The Brook twins. Hmm. Hmm. Lifelong ambition, a threesome wi the Brook twins. Ah’d never mention this tae Terry, cause the cunt wid probably say that eh’d done that, wi thir mother n cousin flung in fir good measure. The daft thing wis, ah tried it oan wi them both, after the club one night when ah got them back tae mine. But it was a no-go.

  — Listen, ah sais back tae Gally, — which Brook twin wis it ye wir ridin whin it happened?

  — Fuck knows, man, Mr Galloway goes, — ah cannae tell them apart.

  Billy wis considerin this. — Ah ken. Identical. No even any moles or that as far as ah could make oot. Ah think thit Lesley might be gittin a bit heavier thin Karen, but a couple ay years back they wir like two peas in a pod.

  — Ye ken the only wey tae tell them apart? Terry ventures.

  — Ah ken whit yir gaunny say, Lawson, Gally cut in, — one spits n one swallays.

  — That’s Lesley yir talkin aboot, that’s the spitter, ah goes. She doesnae even like tae take it in the mooth. Ah should fuckin ken, ah tried enough.

  — Wrong, Terry goes, she will if ye wear a condom. But Karen’s by far the best ride oot ay the two. Takes it up the erse, the fuckin loat.

  — I’ll take your word fir that, ah tell him. Ah’m no a fuckin erse-shagger. That’s for cunts that dinnae ken what thir aboot. Ye ken what they say aboot boys that shag birds up the erse, thir jist waitin tae go aw the wey wi another guy, ah smile.

  Terry fixed ays in a challenging stare. His hair is aw ower the place. — Bullshit! Dinnae fuckin gie ays that, Ewart. It’s just cause you’re that fuckin repressed n unadventurous. You’ve goat tae g
it the fill hoose, pal. Ah kin imagine you oan the joab: five minutes in the missionary position then back tae the boozer.

  — Cunt’s been talkin again, eh? Seriously but, why wait that long? Why dae ye think thit the Scots invented premature ejaculation? Soas we could spend mair time in the pub. Hail Caledonia! Ah raise my gless n the two old boys raise thaires back.

  Terry fixes ays in that raptor’s gaze. — You’ve been hingin aroond wi they Brook lassies a loat. Thir nivir away fae Fluid. Ever done thum baith at once, a threesome?

  That cunt is a fuckin mind-reader. Birrell’s all ears now and Galloway’s eyes are like big, black, satellite dishes focused on me. Ah get a touch paranoid that one ay the Brook girls telt Terry the story, so ah decide that honesty’s the best policy. — Naw, they came back tae mine, the pair ay them, one night eftir Fluid.

  — Aye, that bird certainly spilt some Fluid ower you that night, Gally goes.

  Terry’s smile’s like a blast-furnace. — Aye, well ah goat ma ain back for ye mate, cause ah spilt some in her, eh tells us.

  The thing is, ye ken it’s no crap n aw. That fat cunt. How the fuck he does it is beyond me. He’s a good stone overweight, his clathes and hairstyle are ten, naw, fifteen years oot ay date. The fuckin Rod Stewart of Acid House.

  — Stroll on, Lawson, Gally snorts. — Fuck his bullshit. Terry looks at him as if tae say, aye, we aw ken the state you wir in that night, so before eh kin git it in, Gally steams oan. — C’moan Ewart, what happened wi the Brooks?

  — Well, ah goes, — we’re back at mines; aw pilled up, jist the three ay us. Ye ken how it is; wir dancing n huggin n kissin n just spreadin that big fuckin lurve vibe. Then we goat a bit knackered, n started spacin oot oan the couch. So ah suggested wi aw just go through tae ma big bed n crash oot thegither. The thing wis, ah hud turned intae a fuckin lesbian wi the E’s by that time, ah wisnae even thinkin penetration, ah jist wanted a kind ay sensual romp. Karen wis up for it, she’s aw that ‘aw that wid be beaut-ih-fihhl’ wey, but Lesley wisnae huvin it. Ah’m no takin ma clathes oaf n gittin intae bed wi ma ain sister, she says. So ah goes, c’moan Les, ah mean, youse two shared the same womb for nine months. Just think ay that bed as one big womb. She goes, it’s no that that bothers me; the problem is, ah think ay you bein in thaire wi us, and ah think ay you as the big placenta in that womb.