Filth (19 page)

– Well, you’ll have plenty of time to think sitting with those vegetables in traffic, I tell him.

Clell looks closely at me. There’s a slight tick in his eye. It seems as if I’ve upset him.

– That’s just the way I want it, he bleats.

Cunt thinks that his worries are over and that he can rub our faces in it because he’s got a job as a vegetable. Wrong! We are not interested in the trivial concerns of one Mister Andrew Clelland.

I make my excuses after a bit and head hame.

The Lie Of The Land

Tom Stronach, or Tommy Stronach, as they first called him when he broke through from the Hearts youth set-up in 1984, is my friend of sorts by virtue of his being my next-door neighbour. Tom Stronach: two Scotland caps, the first in 1988 due to several call-offs, which resulted in the largely unheralded through-ball for Coisty or some other west-coast fucker to score the winner in a three-goal thriller in Belgrade, against a fancied Yugoslavian side; well, fancied to beat Scotland at any rate. Then a spell in the wilderness followed by a further cap against Northern Ireland during his swan-song season of 1990-91. That was his last chance to do something, with Everton and Sunderland reputedly making offers which were turned down by the ‘ambitious’ board who, like Tom, spent another few trophyless years in limbo. The spastics ought to have taken the cash: it was to be Stronach’s last season as even a minor force in the game.

Alimony cases and paternity suits have taken their toll on his greengages and Tom’s had to make the socially humiliating climbdown from Colinton Village with wife number three, to this pokey Gumley’s job. He’s a thick cunt whose only attributes is being able to kick a ball badly and he has the nerve to think that
he’s
slumming it, living next door to a law enforcement professional.

I’d taken the morning off to watch the female gymnastics on telly. There was some pubescent ex-commie Tony Hatch worth forty wanks. I couldn’t really get into it though; when I woke up I wanted to hear something by the Michael Schenker Group but I couldn’t decide between
Assault Attack
and
Rock Will Never Die
. After making myself a large fry-up and lighting the fire, I decide to take neither option and go for
Built To Destroy
. I do a bit of air-guitar work and make a mental list of the women I’d like to reduce to a state of slavery and bondage, Drummond coming in at num-bihr one. I check the post and there’s fuck all from Chelmsford. You’re keeping me waiting Tony. I don’t like waiting. Loneliness and melancholy settle in after this and the breathless strains of the stoat-the-baw gymnastics commentator irritates and I decide to seek company next door. The newspapers are still lying around from the weekend. I can see that face in the newspaper. I rip out the page and crumple it up before tossing it into the fire. I quickly re-read the
Sunday Mail
’s postscript of Saturday’s nil– three débâcle at Rugby Park.

A poor performance by the visitors and one which Tom Stronach, in particular, will want to forget. It was his loose pass-back which gifted Killie that decisive second goal, effectively ending the game as a contest.

I go next door and Tom’s in, still scanning the video action from the weekend’s matches. Not for nothing is he constantly referred to as ‘a keen student of the game’. Tabloidspeak for a lazy twat who sits on his arse watching fitba videos aw day.

Tom’s wearing his tracksuit. He looks worried. He always does, when he doesn’t look stupid, that is. – Awright Bruce, he says. I breeze in, past the spastic.

– Not bad Tom, I say, scanning the house for knock-off. There’s some dodgy cunts on her side of the family. I’d ride it mind you, some dirty wee scanties oan the washing line last summer. That’s the mark of a real hoor, leaving them on the line like an invitation. Decent fanny use a tumble drier for that sort of thing. I clock a nice lamp, on the teak cabinets Tom had got built recently. Blue and white china porcelain. – Nice lamp.

– Aye . . . Julie bought it. John Lewis’s.

Mmm. Seems plausible enough. – What’s the game? I point to the screen. Philips’ newest model, four speaker quadrophonic sound, thirty-inch screen. Not bad. Checked it out in Tandy the other day. The one next to Crawford’s in the centre.

– Belgian League fitba on Eurosport. Taped it likes. Mechelen versus Molenbeck. The Mechelen boy scores a cracker. Watch this!

Tom rewinds the video and this Belgian spastic hits a screaming twenty-five yarder home. They might be boring cunts but they can play fitba.

– Could have done wi some ay that style doon in Ayrshire on Saturday, eh Tom, I gloat, trying, as his face contorts defensively, to force some concern and empathy into my voice, – What went wrong?

Tom shrugs, – Dinnae ask me Bruce, he mumbles, shaking his head.

I consider it prudent to change the subject. – All geared up for the Testimonial?

– Aye! Tom’s face lights up enthusiastically, – It’s difficult wi the festive period coming up, but the boys on the committee have done a cracking job and it looks like Kenny Dalglish is going to come up and play for at least part of the game.

– Sound, I say, – that should add a couple of thousand oantae the gate. I’m looking for any additions to the CD rack, and sure as fuck Stronach’s got the new Phil Collins. I pick it up. – What’s it like?

– Brilliant, he says, – the best yit.

– What? I ask incredulously, – Better than
Face Value
or
No Jacket Required?
This spastic doesnae have a clue aboot music.

– Well, concedes Tom, – maybe no
No Jacket Required
, but it’s definitely at least as good as
Face Value
and way in front ay
Hello I Must Be Going!
and
But Seriously
and that last yin, what was that called?

–
Both Sides
, I say.

That’s his missus; baith sides . . . dodgy.

– But that widnae be hard, eh?

I suppose Stronach kens his music. I would n aw, if I hud nothing better tae dae than tae sit listening tae shite aw day.

– I see you were in the papers as well though Bruce, Tom grins, picking up the
Mail
and waving that horrible image at me.

I shudder. – Aye . . .

– Must have been awfay, Stronach shakes his head, – . . . here, watch this! he points at the screen, – comin up now, Bergkamp’s goal for Arsenal . . .

Dennis Bergkamp controls a Ray Parlour cross with a lovely first touch which serves to deceive the first defender, then he skips past the second one before picking his spot, with the on-rushing goalie stranded. One-nil to thee Ar-si-nil . . .

I have a couple of cans with Stronach to take the edge off my hangover, then I go back next door. I am itching and I need to inspect my genitals. This fucking rash is getting worse. Rossi could be right, it might be something to do with the fried food. I scratch and dig at my thighs and scrotum. I’m thinking that some hoor might have infected me. I might have an allergy to fried food, but it’s more likely to be cheese. But I never eat fuckin cheese. I eat all day, but I’m losing weight. Maybe I’ve got something. Aids of a hoor. Naw . . . it can’t be. I’m careful. Only queers and schemies get Aids. Worms, Rossi reckons.

Fuckin worms.

I’m too tired to go in today. Tuesday is a shite day and I’ve been doing too much OT anyway. Never dae on a Monday or Tuesday what ye can dae on a Saturday or Sunday at double time. That’s my philosophy. I take the duvet from the bed and put it over myself on the couch and drift off to sleep watching Stephen Hendry thrash somebody at the snooker. It’s as well at least one jambo can get his hands on some silverware, even if it’s only at a Mickey Mouse glorified pub game rather than a proper sport.

Bunty. I bell Ray Lennox but he’s out. I can’t face the Lodge again the night, but I decide to go out for a drink myself. Might get lucky with some stray fanny in the witching hour. On my way up into town I stop off at the library. I get a hold of a medical book and read about worms. It’s fuckin scary. They picked one that was forty fit long out of a boy’s arse. I reckon. I deserve a drink after reading that.

The pubs are dead as fuck. One Victoria Street bar is like a morgue. It was a popular shop, dead basic, so they spent a fortune modernising it. Then no cunt went, so they spent another wad restoring it, only they restored it to some grand design of what they thought a traditional pub looks like rather than what this one did look like. So still no cunt goes. I’m thinking about Amsterdam and I get a flash of inspiration and phone up Grand Master Frank Crozier at the Lodge and tell him to put the bite into that cunt Toal, explaining that I’m booked up to take my leave in Amsterdam. Frank and I have never really hit it off. He wants to see auld Willie McPhee continue to address the haggis at the Burns supper, and I feel that a change is needed. So there’s a wee bit of frost in his voice. One thing about Crozier though: he hates to see wide cunts like Toal who put little in think that they can use the craft when it suits them.

Not that a great deal of progress has been made. That little fanny-rat Ocky has vanished off the face of the Earth, and Lennox is of zero fucking assistance. He started bleating to me this morning aboot being stretched on this hippy stalk. A fuckin waste of time. Big operators flooding the city with smack and three-quarters of the cunts we bang up are daft schemies or students with a wee bit of hash or a few pills for their pals. Still, it serves its purpose and keeps the cunts in a constant state of terror and alienation and reminds them that this world was not made for
them
, it was made for
us
. They’ll have to do better next time, after the débâcle at the flats. But we’ll get the cunts.