Glue (36 page)

— . . . things are changin . . . goods are obsolete . . . in nae time at aw . . . it’s gittin worse, Alec warns. — . . . It’s gaunny git worse . . .

That’s one fuckin thing that ah kin be sure ay, hingin aroond wi a useless pish-heid like him.

The usual crew are present and incorrect: me, Juice Terry, Gally and Billy Birrell. We’d been in Munich fir the Oktoberfest but we needed a wee brek fae the festival site as things wirnae quite gaun tae plan.

Aye, we wir gittin as pished as effluent canal rats every night, n that wis supposed tae be what this wee jaunt wis aw aboot. The avowed purpose was tae get away, and get back oan the beers n oaf the eckies, cause we’d been tannin them bigtime back hame. That’s partly ma doin; since ah goat seriously intae the deejaying I’ve had a lot ay access, immersed in that life. They hudnae done us any herm like, but nothing that good comes withoot a price so we thoat, leave it fir a bit, git back oan the peeve n see what happens.

Of course, what happened wis the same thing that happened before the E’s came along; every cunt wantin tae go swedgin n naebody able tae git a ride. That wis predictable enough, but this place wis like fanny city. If ye couldnae git yir hole here ye might as well jist take the fuckin razor tae it and flog it tae the French as a delicacy. Thing wis, even though we hud aw grown up oan bevvy, n our whole culture was saturated in the fuckin drug, wi jist wirnae used tae this sort ay scene anymair.

Of course, we each had our ain agenda. It’s never quite as simple as a bunch ay radges oot oan the piss for a fortnight, even though that might be how it seems fae the outside. Billy had a title fight comin up and he wanted tae get away from clubbing and keep his fitness up. His manager, Ronnie Allison, had been very reluctant to let him go away just two months before his big pagger, but he’d played it the wrong way by telling Billy ‘no’ straight off. Billy could be a wilful, obstinate cunt,
and if you said ‘sugar’ he’d say ‘shite’. Which was exactly what he’d said to Ronnie.

Juice Terry was a different haversack of hamsters. He was a bevvy merchant, pure and simple, and the Great White Hope of Aerated Water Salesmanship hudnae taken tae the new ecstasy and club culture with the same abandon as the rest of us. The Munich Oktoberfest was a pish-heid Lourdes, and Terry was determined tae take the healing waters by the Steiner. So Juice Terry Lawson, you could say, was the driving force behind this holiday.

Andy Galloway, as usual, went with the flow. With Gally, there was nothing you couldn’t tease a positive result out of. He’d had his fair share of problems back over the road recently. Gally was a nice guy who just seemed to attract bad luck. If any cunt deserved a good hoaliday it wis him.

And me? Well, tae be quite honest, ah wis awright, in fact ah wis like a fly in the maist deliciously toxic form ay shite ye could get, jist swanning roond the record shops checkin oot aw the Eurotechno stuff. The scene was burgeoning here and that was my agenda. We’d been around a week and mostly I’d been checking out the record shops, but I’d managed to sneak intae a couple of clubs one night wi Billy, who was anxious to get away from the drinking. Terry and Gally didnae half gie us gyp fir that, but we never goat E’d up, stickin tae the bevvy-only pact we’d made, as the Lord God Almighty’s oor witness.

The beer festival was something else though. This whole place wis a rampant inhibition-shedding Sodom and drink-sodden Gomorrah land and oor pullin power wis
still
shite. There were two basic problems, the first one being that we’d lost the ability to talk the drunken innuendo-coded shite that constituted most chat-up lines and the more open, honest E stuff didnae seem appropriate. The second problem was that we simply couldn’t control the bevvy. We were pished senseless before we knew it. So the first week had been aboot acclimatisation tae the new status quo. There had been opportunities for encounters of the sexual nature of course; ah thought that ah wis on a shag on the first night with this Belgian bird but ah wis too pished tae git a proper hard-on and had tae settle for a blow job wi a condom oan and a weak come through a numb semi. Terry had pilled one night, pished as fuck, and eh goat so intae the foreplay that eh mesmerised himself and fell asleep leavin some perr Fräulein searching for the candles. Gally and Billy, surprisingly, hadn’t come close. It made me
think that we can talk aboot colonial exploitation, economic devastation and immigration, but maybe the real reason the population ay Scotland is so low is that every cunt’s too pished tae git it up.

So we’ll probably end up going through more fuckin hotels than we will birds by the end ay the hoaliday. Our original digs had been in this Turkish place wi a narrow wee staircase which led tae a big room wi two bunk beds in it. The gaff hud a wee bar doonstairs n when we came back rat-arsed fae the festival site, ah reached ower the counter n choried a boatil ay Johnny Walker Red Label. We crashed oot on oor bunk beds and drank it until wi passed oot.

The next ah mind is bein woken up by they Turkish fuckers comin intae oor room. They wir shoutin n screamin at us n one ay them went through tae the toilet. What happened was that Terry hud goat up in the night tae dae a shite, but instead ay the bog, the pished-up cunt hud used this bidet thing they hud thaire. I assumed these things wir only found in France, but this doss house hud one. Anywey, the Juice Man realised eh’d shat in the wrong place so eh turned on the wee taps tae wash aw the cack away before hittin the mattress n fawin intae a slumber. The problem wis that maist ay it clogged up in the drainage holes, causin the water tae overflow n go intae the room doonstairs fae us whaire some couple oan honeymoon wir tryin tae bang away in peace, but ended up bein covered in wet peeled plaster and Terry’s shitey pishwater.

That wis us, slung oot intae the street, aw oor clathes n stuff crammed intae oor bags. — You dirty Engleesh bastards, the Turk boy shouted at us. Billy went tae protest at the ‘English’ but Terry goes, — Fuck it, Birrell, we’ll take that. Sorry baht orl that me ol’ moite, eh sais tae the Turkish boy as wi staggered doon the road, aboot five in the mornin, wrecked and delirious. We slept in the station n spent the whole ay the next day miserable, hungover n lookin fir new digs.

It wis a case ay take what ye could get, and the new digs were a lot fuckin dearer. Gally was moaning that eh wis skint n couldnae afford it, but it wis any port in a storm as far as the rest ay us went.

Billy wis gaun on aboot huvin tae get settled, as eh kept calling it. — Ah need tae get settled, ah’ve goat a fight comin up, eh whinged. It worried me that eh wis whingin that much, cause Birrell never usually complained aboot anything. Eh always just goat on wi it.

Terry was getting maist ay the blame for the Turkish debacle, and the arguments carried oan and oan. They were still at it at breakfast next morning. Ah couldnae handle aw the bickering, so ah went away
for a stroll n tae check oot some music. Ah found an excellent record shop, promptly cornering a deck and a set ay headphones. The first record that ah’ve selected ah play three times. Cannae make up ma mind. Starts off like it means business, but then it jist seems tae go naewhaire. Nah. The second one is a cracker, fae a Belgian label ah’d never heard ay, lit alone kin pronounce. This fucker just builds and builds then it levels oaf fir a bit, before kickin up a fuckin storm again. A great track for upping the stakes oan the danceflair. The best tune I’ve heard in my life. Ah find another cracker fae the same label, then a mad, crashing FX track which ah decide would be fuckin apocalyptic if ye knocked oaf its bass and played the cunt oan toap ay the building track when that fucker hits its plateau.

I get talking tae this boy in the shoap, who’s in deliverin some fliers. The boy’s called Rolf, n eh must be aboot oor age or a bit younger, a dark-skinned punter wi a cheeky smile. Eh’s wearin this T-shirt which promotes this German techno label. These German cunts look that fuckin fit n fresh, it’s no easy tae tell thir age. Eh’s tellin ays aboot a party night, then eh’s pointin ays oot some tunes, one ay which is an absolute cracker, so ah huv that as well. Eftir a bit a tidy bird, slim wi long blonde hair, wearin a white T-shirt but nae bra, comes in tae meet the Rolf boy. — This is Gretchen, eh says. Ah gie her a pat oan the airm n a hiya. Rolf gies ays ehs number before they leave thegither. Ah watch thum depart, hopin this bird’s goat a sister at hame, or mibbe some mates that look like her: Bundesliga fanny, as Terry would say.

Eftir checkin oot some mair sounds ah’m crackin oan wi the guy behind the counter, Max, n some ay ehs mates. Wir talkin tunes n the boys aw seem as genuinely interested n what’s gaun oan wi us back hame as ah ahm aboot what’s gaun oan doon here. The truth ay it is, and ah feel a bit guilty aboot it, but this is what ah like the maist now, crackin oan wi some heads about sounds, checkin oot what cunts are listening tae, sussin oot what’s gaun doon. Apart fae bein oan the decks, this is the highest form ay enjoyment for me. Obviously ah like hangin oot wi the boys n aw, but every cunt’s cooler now. We kin aw git thegither n huv a laugh withoot bein in each other’s poakits aw the time.

So ah spent maist ay the day in the shoap. That’s the thing aboot music, if yir really intae it, ye can go anywhere in the world and feel like you’ve goat long-lost mates within a couple ay hours.

Of course, the Not-So-Lean Lawson still goes oan aboot us aw stickin thegither, bit that’s only whin it suits that cunt. As soon as thir’s fanny showin any interest, eh’s oaf like a fuckin shot. Like this morning
after breakfast, eh wanted us tae stick aroond and spraf, until it wis time fir him tae head oaf, tae dae ehs ain wee bit ay sniffin aroond. That’s Terry, eh finds a bird eh fancies workin in a pub or a shoap, then eh goes n hassles her till she comes oot for a drink wi um. Eh’s got nae shame, and eh’s obviously spotted a few targets. Terry cannae bear tae be alaine, unless eh’s goat a television set for company. But Billy wanted tae git back and dae some trainin, while Gally wis intae bevvyin.

Sure enough, when ah goat back late afternoon, Terry’s away, n Birrell wis oot for a run in ehs tracksuit n Gally wis sitting on the hotel balcony half-pished wi a carry-oot. — Excellent ales, he slurred theatrically. — Well, eh goes, fixin ays wi these big lamps ay his, — Steyin in a gaff like this, ah’m no gaunny huv the money tae be able tae go oot drinkin.

Ah dinnae like the idea ay him sittin pissin it up like that oan ehs tod. That’s no holiday drinkin, no tae me, but if that’s what eh wants tae dae it’s up tae him.

So this night we takes a wee jaunt up tae the university area in order tae take stock ay the situ. We’d gone tae the U-bahn and goat oaf at the University Station, jist because, ah suppose, loads ay birds seemed tae be gettin oaf there. We walked aroond fir a bit and ended up in this place called the Schelling Saloon. It wis a large bar with loads ay pool tables. It had a loat ay character, in fact it probably had too much; a wee German gadge told us that it wis Hitler’s local and he came in here a loat when eh first moved tae Munich.

Anywey, that wis us. Getting pished again, but this time wi wir far from the madding crowds in the festival site, jist sittin up here in Adolf’s auld boozer. Aye, we were soon tannin it, although Billy wis hudin back a bit cause ay the big fight comin up. Of course Juice Terry wis giein the perr cunt a hard time.

— C’moan Birrell, ya fuckin blouse, yir supposed tae be oan hoaliday. Git a fuckin jag in ye, eh goes, lookin aw superciliously doon at Billy’s orange juice.

Billy jist smiles back at um. — Later, Terry. Ah’ve goat tae watch, mate. Ah’m fightin in a few weeks’ time, mind. Ronnie Allison’ll go radge if ah dinnae maintain ma condition.

— Hear the cunt. The fuckin Rembrandt Kid thaire. Nivir oaf the fuckin canvas, the corkscrew-heided cavalier laughed.

— Bullshit, Terry. Ah’ve nivir been pit doon in ma life, although ah wid be if you wir ma trainer, Billy retorted, looking dismissively at Terry.

That wis true. We wir aw really proud ay Billy. Ronnie Allison had warned him oaf hingin aboot wi us: drinkin, clubbin and fitba, but Billy didnae gie a fuck. The boy Birrell hud it. He could gie a punch and he could take one n aw, no that eh hud tae very often wi his reflexes. I suppose that ah had taken it on myself to be Billy’s conscience, so I chipped in. — Naw, that’s right, you take it easy, Billy, ah encouraged him, turnin tae Terry. — Yir no wantin Billy tae blow ehs chances, Juice, no fir the sake ay a few scoops. That’s been the trouble wi this fuckin brek, too much sauce, no enough hole, ah advanced. Naebody was really listenin tae ays though, Terry and Billy wir loast in the pool, n Gally wis checkin oot the lassies that worked behind the bar.

— Jist as well that Hitler cunt’s no in here the night, ah laughed eftir Billy missed a stripe, — or the radge might try tae annex this fuckin table.

— Wee Nazi cunt wid git this fuckin cue ower ehs chops if eh tried it, Terry went, slapping the fat end intae ehs open palm.

— The pool tables wouldnae have been here in Hitler’s day but, Billy observed, — that wis the Yanks thit broat that, eftir the war.

This fairly goat ays thinkin. — The thing is though, ah goes, — imagine if thir hud been tables in this place whin Hitler wis here, whin eh wis drinkin in here likes. The course ay human history might’ve changed. Ah mean, ye ken how obsessive the cunt wis, right? Suppose the wee fucker pit aw his energies intae being the master ay the pool table.

— Poolführer Hitler, Terry said, giein the Nazi salute n clickin ehs heels thegither.

A few German cunts at the other tables looked roond, no that he wis giein a fuck. Ah wisnae either, cause thir wis nae photographers tae blaw a harmless joke up intae a Nuremberg rally. — Seriously bit, ah goes, — it’s the kind ay game thit sucks ye in. Look at it another wey, how many potential dictators have been thwarted in thir dreams ay world domination by a fuckin pool table in thir local?

Terry wisnae listening bit, he wis admirin the waitress whae wis bringin us ower another round ay drinks. They wir aw wearin they traditional Bavarian outfits, the ones whaire the tits are shored up and displayed for the boys.