Glue (40 page)

— 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 git 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.

Gally looks slowly ower at Terry and a pneumatic hiss ay a laugh starts up fae the cunt. Terry’s joinin in too. Soas Birrell. — Placenta Ewart, Gally chortles, then goes aw serious and points at me, — that nickname could catch on!

— DJ Placenta, that sounds barry, Terry laughs.

We head oot oan the S-Bahn n decide tae take it the other wey, further oot for a bit, stopping oaf fir a beer in a bar on the lakefront at Starnberg.

The lake is choppy for a clear, still day. Ah’m thinking, how could landlocked water have that movement? Was it from the boats or
maybe underground streams flowing into it? Ah’m about to discuss it but ah’m too lazy to pursue the thought, enjoying the sounds of the small waves slopping against the ridge of the boardwalk a few feet from our table. It’s a pleasant, even arousing sound, bringing tae mind two naked bodies (specifically mine and a shaggable lassie’s, or maybe two, maybe baith Brook twins) slapping together in a four-poster, king-sized bed. It had been too long. Ten fuckin days. There’s a wee dug sniffing around which reminded me of Gally’s auld dug Cropley. Ah feel as horny as Cropley in the summers before they got the perr cunt speyed.

Terry looks at this dog which was staring at him inquisitively. — Hiya boy, he goes, — it’s like eh kens what ah’m sayin.

— Mibbe eh jist fancies ye. It’ll no be the first yin yuv fucked, Gally telt um.

As Terry grimaced, Billy sais, — Gally, ken your mate, eh’s ma brar’s mate n aw, the posh boy thit’s gaunny be the vet?

— Aye, Gareth, Gally goes.

— Aye, eh went tae one ay they snobby schools, but eh’s a Hibs boy, a game cunt likes, Terry sais tae me.

— Anywey, Birrell explains, — Rab wis gaun oan aboot dugs bein able tae ken what ye say n that Gareth goes: Don’t anthropomorphise our four-legged friends, Robert, it merely serves to debase members of both species.

— That’s Gareth, Gally laughs.

Ah dinnae ken this boy, only by ehs rep, but ah say nowt. Ah’m tempted tae say that it’s an awfay big word for a Hibby tae use, but ah shut it. The odds are stacked against me but; Placenta Ewart. Ah’m jist waitin fir that yin tae re-surface.

Terry’s gaun oan aboot this bird now. She’s German, studyin Spanish and Italian at Munich Uni, but apparently her English is shite-the-night-after-a-vindaloo-hoat as well. We’re aw pretty jealous and that’s probably where aw Gally’s stuff aboot Terry’s knob came fae. But the cunt does have a long foreskin: basic statement ay fact. Long foreskin or no long foreskin, we let the fucker go ahead and arrange tae meet him later at the Hacker-Psychor tent at the Festival site. Wir aw huvin a wee snigger as eh walks away, the corkscrew hair blawin aw ower the place against the wind comin oaf the lake.

Eh’s wide for oor game n turns roond, smilin derisively, giein us the Vs.

A few peeves later we’re walkin through the underpass of the local S-Bahn station towards the toon. There’s a group of young girls, jist kids really, congregated around the exit from the tunnel. There must be fuck all for them tae dae in a place like this: a toon dominated by auld cunts and rich commuters.

— Some wee rides aroond the day, eh, Gally goes.

Things must be gittin desparate wi him n aw. — Bairns, ah say, no very convincingly.

— So fuck, he goes and eh’s right ower tae them. — Enchildigung bitte, mein deutsch is neit so gooed. Sprekt ze Engels?