“But anyway, it wasnae easy here in the early days. Billy telt me ah needed a proddy name if ah wis gonnae get work. Kin ye imagine that? Me, pretendin’ tae be wan ay them!?” I said, pointin’ aroon the bar, at no cunt and every cunt.
“But ah needed the work. So David O’Donnell became Davy Munroe. Ah became a blue nosed cunt overnight an goat ma first joab oan the roads. Diggin’ holes fir the county man. Fuckin’ shite work up this neck ay the woods. The weather goat so bad up they glens you just wanted tae jump intae yer fuckin’ hole and go fir the big long sleep. But ah’d started seein’ yer mother shortly after arrivin’ so ah needed the old do re mi.”
Ah looked at the wee man’s glass. He’d tanned his pint. Ah looked up at the bar.
“Donny!” ah shouted, “can ah get another couple a pints ah Nimbus. An a couple a dribble chasers in aw.”
Ah looked at the boy. He was laughin’ as he lit another fag. Ah’ve still fuckin’ goat it.
“Anyway, so ah wis here an earnin’. Sure enough the cunts ripped the piss oot me fir ma hair and that. Cause ah wis a hippy efter the hippies cut their hair. Cause that’s how it wis son. When ye see that shite oan the telly aboot the sixties ye need tae remember that that wis aw the upper class cunts. They were aw poncin’ aboot in London and that. Glesga, the workin’ man’s toon, didnae get the sixties until the seventies. The rich hippies fucked aff tae India and aw that. The poor hippies fae the schemes came tae the Heelands. Tae wee drizzly shit holes like this.”
We baith looked aroon. Ah felt that hing ah’d been feelin’ since ah arrived here. This wis where ah chose tae raise a faimly. This wis the bar ah chose tae get fucked in fir the rest ah ma puff. Ye cud see the evolution ay the local pond life afore yer eyes. Ye hud the boy here. 18 year old and still smellin’ ah talc. Then ye hud that cunt Jasper. Oan the shite side ah thrity, pishin’ it away oan a Wednesday night, beer belly, Ranger’s tap oan like a fuckin’ butcher’s apron. Then ye hud me. Sittin’ in this bastard chair, 53 an countin’, tryin’ ma best tae pass that beacon ah sense ah’d been carryin’ aroon fir years ontae the young team. Then ye hud auld Gooshan. The blue nose hud gone purple wi the Bell’s, eight year auld paint thinner, pishin’ his pants and singin’ ‘The Sash’. It wis a fuckin’ miserable state of affairs. Ah looked back at the boy. Ah didnae want this fir him. Ah didnae want tae see him as me when ma nose wis drippin’ intae that tumbler up at the bar, waitin’ fir a harsh winter tae put me in the groond. Ah shuddered.
“Anyway, the first time ah hud any bother here was a few weeks efter ah arrived. Ah’d settled in awright. A few cunts hud seen me aboot and stared at me like ah wis a fuckin’ dildo in a cake shop. Me bein’ the hippy cunt like ah wis in this place. But the day the trouble started wis when we came in here fir the auld firm. Back then they’d just bought their first telly. We black and white effort that hud mair snow that an eskimo’s weather report. But every cunt had crammed in here tae watch the game. Ah wis in wi Billy Breeks and Tam. Aw three ay us were big Selic boys. But we tried no tae be oan that day. We couldnae pretend tae be huns. The amount of Tims turnin’ in their grave wid start a fuckin’ earthquake. But we tried tae seem like we didnae gee a fuck. Like we were watchin’ the wind blow or summit. And people seemed tae believe that. Us lookin’ like we did. They aw thought we wir too soft tae like the fitbaw. Fuckin’ mistake number wan.” I says, wi a wee wink.
“We hud a few boys starin’ at us as we walked in. We were prepared fir that. A couple of the boys are still here. Auld Ford was wan ah thum. This wis back when he was called Suzuki. But he goat pished an crashed his fuckin’ Suzuki. So he bought an Escort. Now he’s called Ford. But back them he wis a fuckin’ big boy. That was afore the drink buckled him. But they were starin’ us up an doon. As you know son, ah wis a fightin’ man back in Drumchapel. I’d fight cunts oan the way tae a fight. Ah could handle maself. So could Billy and Tam. Tam used tae be a wild yin back in the day. So these Highland cunts didnae frighten the likes ah us. We’d aw seen oor reflections in the back a chibs. We knew whit real danger looked like.”
Ah could see ah hud the boy’s attention noo. He hadnae looked at that phone ay his fir a couple a minutes. When Davy Flash spun a yarn the fuckin’ world goat wrapped up in it. Yas.
“So we were gettin’ as pished as a Tim at his mother’s funeral. Bangin’ back the pints. Whisky chasers. We didnae huv any ah that poof juice you loat drink the day. Booze was broon. Or that slightly green coloured liquid that ye can clean paintbrushes wi. So we were gettin’ stocious, and startin’ tae make a racket. Ford tries tae squeeze past us tae get tae the bar. Now, you know me son. Ah’m yer best pal in world until ye gie me a reason no tae be. Ah let Ford past, say “oan ye go mate.” He looks at me, pure towerin’ ower me. Ah can feel that chill fae the big cunt’s shadow. “Cheers sweetheart” he says tae me. Fuckin’ sweetheart!? He goes tae touch ma hair. Ah slap his big steak hond away and square up. Puffin’ ma chest oot an goin’ intae Jack Russell mode. “What? What you gonna do ya wegie cunt?” he says. Ah almost loast it son. Ah was aboot tae burst ma pint glass ower his head and stamp the big cunt oot. But Tam swoops in, knowin’ me too well. He says sorry, ah’m new tae the area, ah don’t know many cunts, had a few drinks. Aw that bullshit ye tell someone tae make them fuck aff feelin’ like a winner. Ford grunts and goes up tae the bar. Tam whispers in ma ear, “we’ll get the cunt soon enough.” Ah just smiled and got back tae tellin’ ma story.”
“It was 0-0 in the fitbaw. Ah wis told later is was a fuckin’ awful game. Baith teams just knocked lumps oota each other. It wis closer tae Barlinnie than Barcelona. Ah’d nearly ground ma teeth tae dust listenin’ tae they proddy fucks singin’ the sash, callin’ us fuckin’ tatty niggers, Taigs, fenians, left footers, bead rattlers, papes. You fuckin’ name it. Ah’d been Selic Park and Snake Mountain enough times in ma time, but some ah the racist filth ah heard in this pub oan that day shocked me son. These teuchters bastards hated the Irish mare than Thatcher ever could. Tam an Billy could see ah wis gettin’ riled up. They were too, but not like ah wis. They didnae huv the same connection tae the faith that ah hud back then. Ah wis fuckin’ livid.”
“In the last minute ay the game we get a penalty. A stonewaller. No question. But of course the cunts start up. Callin’ conspiracy and pointin’ fingers. Like they dinnae get enough fuckin’ freebies fae the SFA!? Shaft the Fenian’s Association is whit ah call it son! So efter the abuse dies down, King Kenny steps up and puts the baw oan the spot. The fuckin’ crowd goes silent man. The Clachan is fuckin’ silent. Me, Tam and Billy Breeks rush up tae the telly, bumpin’ intae cunts, squeezin’ past and causin’ a bit ay a fuckin’ scene. Three dipit hippy cunts tryin’ tae get a swatch ah the fitbaw. “
Ah take a big gulp ah ma beer. The boy’s oan the edge ay his fuckin’ seat. Waitin’ oan me. Ah take ma time. Ah wis feelin’ a bit pished by this point. The Bob Marley ah’d smoked in the hoos was huvin’ its way wi me. But ah took a second tae get ma words the gither. Build the suspense.
“Just as Kenny’s steppin’ back an pickin’ his spot, ah here a voice behind me. “Here you ya big fuckin’ hairy poof! You’re not a window! Gonna move or ah’ll fuckin’ break ya!” Course, ah knew who that wis. Ah looked at Tam. He gave me a wee nod. Ah took a quick look in the reflection ay ma pint glass. Ah saw that cunt Ford standin’ right behind me. Ah could feel that chill again.”
“All ah saw ay that penalty was Kenny runnin’ up take strike. Ah spun roon, in a Davy fuckin’ Flash, and smashed that pint glass ower Ford’s big fuckin’ heed. Beer and blood burst everywhere. Me, Tam and Billy jumped on the fucker and set aboot kickin’ his cunt inside oot. Course a fuckin’ brawl starts in the bar. Every cunt’s throwin’ punches, tryin’ thir hardest tay pop wan ay us. But we were just layin’ boys oot left an right. Picture the fuckin’ scene son! Us standin’ there wi long hair, waistcoats, flares an clogs an that, beatin’ seven shades of shite oota big fuckin’ men’s men. Lassies were screamin’. Pint glasses were flyin’. And we were still standin’ at the end ay it, covered in blue blood that wisnae oor ain. Fuckin’ freedom fighters son!” ah shouted, almost jumpin’ oot ma fuckin’ wheelchair and poundin’ ma fist on a heart.
The wee man was smilin’. We baith just sat there smilin’ fir a minute. Ah felt like we wur brother’s. Ah just looked at um. Thinkin’ aboot how different we were.
“Did Dalglish score the penalty?” he asks us.
Ah laugh and light another fag.
“Whit dae you think!?!”
We baith started laughin’. It coulda bin the drink and the smoke, but ah could swear ah’d seen that wee cunt become a bit bigger. Somethin’ aboot him was different. We baith laughed the smiles aff oor faces and sunk intae that silence again.
“But, what was the point ah that story da?” he asks us after a few seconds.
Ah thought about it. Ah thought back tae where ah wis then an where ah am noo. Ah wasnae happy then and ah ain’t happy noo. Ah still hate this fuckin’ place as much as ah did oan that day. Nothin’s changed. Ma guts a bit bigger, ma liver’s a bit pinker, ma lung’s a bit blacker. Ah’m two feet shorter, and fuck ton wiser, pushin’ these fuckin’ wheels tae the same shite bar that ah’ve been goin’ tae fir thirty-odd year, still ridin’ the same auld hoors and lyin’ tae the mother ah ma kids every fuckin’ day. Ahm no happy. And neither’s he. Ah thought a little harder and tried tae come up wi a moral. But there wasnae wan. ‘Don’t be me’. That wis as gud as ah could come up wi.
“I don’t know.” I said, starin’ at the empty glasses oan the table. Ah looked at the wee boy that sat across fae his da, wantin’ answers tae the questions the old boy’d nivir known tae fuckin’ ask himself.
“Another round Donny!” I shouted, as a waited fir ma old stupit heart tae stop poundin’.