So why the fuck am I goin’ to India of all places? Why not Australia or fuckin’ Benidorm for two weeks like a normal person? Well the truth is ma man, I’m not happy. Haven’t been for a long time. I like to reflect on things a fair bit and I can’t remember the last time I could look at my life and say I was happy. Like actually happy, you know? I’ve been happy about certain things; Selic winning the league, getting Ian Brown tickets, discount need-to-get-sold-or-I’m-gettin’- ma-legs-broke coke, and some other shit as well but that’s about it. I can’t honestly say that I could look at my life, taking every single detail into consideration, and say that I was happy with the majority of them.
So let’s take a good look at the current state of ma life:
No relationship, no job, no job prospects, a growing drug and alcohol dependency, boredom, a searing contempt towards my “friends” and a fuckin’ mother on ma back at me to stop squandering ma youth. She’s the worst though. Givin’ it all that, “If ah hud the chance tae dae it all again son…” and “You’ve that many opportunities these days son”, as if I’m not fully aware how shite my life currently is, let alone how shite it could well become. I mean, it could be a lot worse obviously. I’m not a starving orphan in an Oxfam advert or a fly in a spider’s web or something. But given the fact that I’m young, white, educated, comparatively affluent and can speak English (well, Scottish but I see no point in being pedantic when I’m giving myself a hard time), my life is a shameful waste of resources.
Now let’s be clear here my dear, India is not the solution. I am fully aware of this. It’s not like there’s a job or future waiting there for me and it’s not like I’m headin there to ‘find maself’ or any of that balls. I just need a bit of time to work some shite out. I know that I can’t get that in Glasgow. I know that coming to that conclusion doesn’t directly point to India, but I reckon I can go there on the cheap, see some shit and get ma head straight. That’s the plan anyway, although I did hear that Ketamine’s legal there. Might have shot myself in the foot there boys! Basically, I need to iron out the creases and try to work out what I really want from this life before it’s too late and I end up like every other cunt. Watchin’ the X-Factor in ma council house, kids at my neck, wife on ma case about the clogged sink, clock watchin’ all the way to the cemetery gates. Nah mate, FUCK that.
I’m very much of the “Made in China” generation. A 21st Century Boy. I like my kicks to be low in their cost and plentiful in their abundance, regardless of the suffering involved. I care not for quality and have little patience to let it come to be. I’d rather have a hundred pairs of crappy sunglasses that warp and skew my vision than one fantastic pair which let me see life the way it ought to be seen. I am the 21st Century Boy. I can be a selfish, cowardly wee shite, who’s completely jaded by cheap thrills and instant gratification. It’s the way I’ve been brought up, though done little to change. But India shows promise in giving me a look at the other side of the coin. Cunts have been telling me how pure filthy it is over there, that the poverty is horrific and that I should have chosen Thailand instead. But this is it right, I need to find out the real price paid for my standard of living. How much does it cost other people to put a Celtic shirt on my back, Levis on my legs and hash in my lungs? That’s how I look at it. I owe poor people enough to at least go and acknowledge how much they’ve contributed to ma lifestyle. You can’t just be ignorant about that shite. Everyone should know what it takes to make Britain and America and these places run the way they do. But I suppose if everyone knew, they probably wouldn’t run the way they do.
As well as having major bouts of white guilt, I’m also fucking bored. I’m sick and tired of every single one of ma stories starting in a sordid little Glasgow pub and ending at the edge of some random lassie’s bed with my head in my hands, only partially regretting the journey there. The same experience reoccurs week in week out. The only variable is the quality of substances I seem to pour so much hope and expectation into.
My life is like watching Romeo and Juliet performed by a different theatre group every weekend. Sometimes it’s better than others, but it’s always pretty much the same. You’re enjoying it for the first wee while, the plot’s new and interesting enough to keep you entertained, but after you know the outcome and are familiar with the path towards it, it becomes boring and predictable. The actors are the drugs. Sometimes they can make each line count and truly add something special to the performance, other times they can be so bad that they ruin the whole thing. Once the plot has become so meaningless and the tragic outcome an accepted inevitability, you put your faith in the only variable; the actors/drugs. If they are good at what they do, you’re prepared to sit through the predictable story until its grim and morbid conclusion. Which, in the case of our darlings Romeo and Juliet, it comes with accidental suicide in the name of love. In my case, it comes with staring blankly into a mirror on a Sunday night, contemplating suicide as a result of my quest for vacuous, transparent love. It’s basically the same thing but I would argue that my case is more heartbreaking than theirs. They actually got to die, whereas I don’t have the balls to put an end to the torment of floundering potential and drowning ambition that exists in me every single fuckin’ day.
So there’s part of your answer. A bit extreme towards the end, but that’s the reality of it. I’m very, very bored. I need to do something interesting and worthwhile with my youth, even if it is for all the wrong reasons. You see, I don’t want to go like my old man went towards the end. Get to forty-five and realize that my youth’s gone, so I grow a goatee, buy a leather jacket and try to shag all the single mums in town. Actually, fuck forty-five, look at my cousin Sandy. A fat, thirty-two year old cokehead bedroom DJ, who wears clothes intended for someone half his age and tries to ride birds who also fall into that category. Every time I look at him a little part of me shudders. Like actually shudders, because I can see maself in him. Sometimes I catch my reflection on a CD case or a mirror as I snort something and see his beady eyes staring back at me. Shooting warnings signs through the air at me. I genuinely worry about becoming like him or ma dad. Is that bad? Not wantin’ tae be anything like your family? That’s fuckin’ bad in’t it? Christ, I don’t even know anymore. But I guess knowing what you don’t want to become is a good start towards working out who you do want to become.
In almost every single way possible it’s a good idea for me to get the fuck out for a while. But there is one big thing pulling me back to shore. Her. Fuckin’ her man. Of all the things I thought might hold me back, I would have never guessed a lassie had the strength. After all of the women I’ve been with in my time, it would be my luck to finally meet one I like just before I’m leaving for while. This could have happened to me two years ago and changed my life. Who knows, it could have stopped me from flying four-thousand miles around the world in search of happiness. But sometimes that’s the way of things. Right place, wrong time.
The more I hang out with her the more I like her, like. It’s no just the mind-blowin’ sex, although that cannot be ruled out as a contributing factor, it’s her. Just the way she is and that. After that first awkward morning we both kind of saw the drawbacks of our primitive instincts tae fuck things. It was healed by a bit of tender text messaging and a bit of Facebook chat back and forth. The following weekend we went out for drinks again, and when faced with the hump or home decision, I surprised both of us by opting for home. It was weird, it was like with that one choice I had suddenly become more attractive to her. I was like Hugh Grant dipped in Tia Maria at a granny’s birthday party. Hot stuff like. She’d always done it for me in that area, but it was nice to know that the feeling was reciprocated. We started textin’ more frequently, gettin’ together at least a couple of times a week and really enjoying one another’s company.
But this wasn’t what I wanted.
I’m about to say “Cheerio!” to this city, country and continent in a matter of weeks and I intended to make it a clean break. British Army style, no man left behind, you know. But I don’t know, I guess the lure of chasing love, something I can surely say that I’ve never felt before, was too strong to keep my plan on the rails. I don’t think I love her, but how can you really be sure at this early stage, particularly if this month long fling thing happens to be the longest relationship you’ve ever had. I mean, I think about her a lot, I’m always happy to see her and I when I’m with her my bullshit filter is completely redundant. I just speak my mind and spout whatever shite I happen to be thinking about. I’ve never been like that with a bird. I’m usually too busy trying to think of things that’ll impress her and make her knickers hit her ankles. That’s the way I am. Or was. I dunno, but it’s nice, being able to feel comfortable enough around someone that you can completely be yourself. ‘Cause I can’t even say what I really think when I’m around my mates like. See I’m the youngest in our botched-together group of arseholes, so I kind of feel compelled tae watch my tongue and try not to come across like the wee guy. Particularly not the wee guy taggin’ about with his big cousin. Not a good look. But I haven’t had a connection like that with anyone since ma dad.
Obviously the thing with ma dad is playing a pretty big role in stressing me out and making me want to get away from this scene for a while. He died a while back you see. Two years ago. It’s been a slow road to recovery from that blow folks, let me tell you. I don’t feel like going into it now. It’s still a wee bit soon for me to try to articulate how I feel about it and judge how I’ve been taking it. I don’t talk about it you see. Rarely even write about it. It’s one of those things that feels far too big to tackle right now. It’s like gazing at the moon through the wrong end of a telescope. One day I’ll work it all out. Right now, I feel like I could almost write about the death of a family dog and its impact on my life. But the death of a parent, fuck that man. Too soon.
One day though brother, one day.