Tag Archives: violence

Sixty Minute Mark

The following dialogue is based on a true story I was told yesterday.


So tell me what happened again?

What? Again?

Yeah, I’m not quite getting my head around this.

I don’t want to talk about it anymore.

Come on.

No. Fuck off.


So you were going to be late for the party?

I told you I don’t want to fucking tell it again.

And you were on the bench.

Yeah, for that one game.

Yeah right. You’re always on the bench.

No I’m not! I was on the bench for that one game.


So then what happened?

Just leave it.

You came onto the pitch late in the game.

It wasn’t that late. Sixty minute mark maybe.

And then what?

You know what happened next! Leave it will you!?


But I’m not quite understanding it all.

Fucking hell. It’s not that hard to understand.

Yes it is!

How is it?

Because you put someone in hospital!?

Pffft. He’ll be fine.



Christ, alright! Jesus. I came on, around the sixty minute mark.


I was late for the party. So did what I needed to do.

Which was?

Get sent off.


But why didn’t you just handball it or something?

Because that would have looked shit.


Because it would have looked like I was trying to get sent off.

And headbutting someone as soon as you came on wouldn’t?!?

Christ, I don’t know!


So what happened?

I got sent off.

And the guy went to hospital?

Aye, maybe. I don’t know! He’ll be fine!

I don’t know if he will.

He’ll be fine. I didn’t hit him that hard.


So then what?

That’s it.

That’s it?

Aye, that’s fucking it!

And you made it to the party?

Well I’m fucking here aren’t I?


Don’t you feel bad about it?


Don’t you feel bad?

Yeah. I do. But I was gonna miss the start of the party!

Why didn’t you just call the referee a ‘cunt’ or something? That would have worked.

You’re a cunt! Christ, I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking clearly.


So what happens now?

What do you mean, what happens now?

Are the police involved like?


You assaulted someone!

Pffft. He’ll be fine. Right, get the drinks in. It’s your round, cunt.

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The Taboo List – A true story

The following is a completely true story.


“Ross-uh” said my co-worker quietly, tapping me on the shoulder. I spun around in my chair and tried to smile.

“Hi” I said. I’d given up trying to remember her name.

“Yeah, hi. Uhm, I is uh hab-uh a job por you” she said, smiling.

“Okay” I said. I pulled the head phones out of my iPhone and stopped Metallica screaming at her from their tiny little speakers.

“You know is, uh, these days is-uh, Smart-uh TB. Okay?”


“Good. Okay, okay. You need to uh, changey the system. We is uh write-uh the taboo words for Smart TB.”


I had no idea what she was talking about. But that was normal. I’ve been in Korea for long enough to know that trying to work out what people are trying to tell you in their mangled ‘Eng-uh-lish-ee’ will make you bleed from the ears. I’d gotten pretty good at smiling and nodding and not getting fired, so I just did it again.

“Okay good” she said, smiling. She handed me a piece of paper. There was a mixture of printed Korean and penciled Eng-uh-lish-ee on the page. I took it from her and tried to smile again.

That smile burst across my face as soon as I saw what was written on the page.


I quit teaching English here about a month ago. Since then I’ve been working for a company that writes the dialogue for a new form of Smart TV (Smart-uh TB in Korean). I’m told that this is the future. Within the next year the first remote control-less TVs will hit the market and will set the trend for the future. You will be able to order your TV to do things from sofa. But only if you’re American or Canadian. Scottish people are not allowed to talk to technology yet.

I got this job because I told them that I was a writer. And I suppose I am, to an extent. I write as a hobby and hope to make it a career one day. But I also got the job on the strength of my fake American accent, which is, if do say so myself, fucking good. I have fooled many Americans over the last few months and I seem to be getting closer and closer to becoming fluent. I think with an American accent now.

But in this job I must write commands and responses for both the human user and the robot TV. I do this for eight hours a day, writing the phrase “change the channel” in as many different ways as possible. It’s mind-numbing, pencils-up-your-nose-and-smash-your-face-off-the-fucking-desk boring. But I’m out of the classroom and I can go for a cigarette whenever I want, so it’s fine for now.

But after a week of writing this monotonous dialogue and thinking about quitting every minute, I was given a very special job. I was chosen from a pool of four foreigners as the person most qualified to write the ‘Taboo List’. This is the database of crass, sexual, violent and racist language that the TV isn’t allowed to process. If someone commands the TV to write or search for any of the phrases or words on the taboo list, they will not be processed. I don’t know why I was selected as being the perfect person for the job, but they clearly saw something in me. In me they must have seen a man of the world, who’s Scottish heritage (I tell the Koreans I’m half Scottish) and metrosexuality made him the ideal candidate for the job of listing every racist, sexual and violent phrase that has ever been uttered.

Finally, I had been given the job I was born to do.


I looked at the piece of paper in my hands. My eyes were immediately drawn to the word “pussy” written under the “Sexual Language” section. I looked back at her. She smiled again and pushed her hair behind her ears. She looked so naive, almost genderless.

“You understand?” she asked.

“I think so.”

“Maybe, you is uh, liting the sex-uh talk. Uh, like-uh..”

She stood and made little circles with her finger as she tried to force the words out. She wanted me to help her out. I just waited.

“Suck my pussy thing.”

My eyes exploded. I tried my hardest to keep the smile back, but I couldn’t stop the laughter in my eyes. My middle aged Korean boss had just said ‘suck my pussy’ to me in the middle of our office. I looked around. The other members of staff had stopped working and started leaning over the backs of their chairs to listen in.

“Maybe, kiss my pussy. You understand?” she asked.

I covered my face with my hand and laughed silently into my palm. I composed myself and looked back at her.

“I think so” I said.

“Good. Maybe the racist thing too. Okay?”

I looked back at the page. She had written the word “nigger” and underlined it twice. I looked back at her. She was smiling. I looked back at the word “nigger” again. It’s not a word I see written down very often. It seems more offensive when it’s written in pencil and underlined. Twice.

“You is uh, maybe, liting the racist hip-hop thing. And the sex-uh. And maybe some killing and fighting thing. Okay?”

I looked back at the word “nigger” again. I noticed the words “Jungle Fever” and “Dirty Jew” written next to it. The whole thing had lost it’s fun a little. I looked back to her. She was still smiling.

“Okay. I’ll do it now” I said.

She gave me a big thumbs up and walked out of the office. The other girls kept looking at me over the backs of their chairs. They were smiling from ear to ear. I didn’t really know how to feel.


I took a deep breath, and started typing.

  • Cracker
  • Nigger
  • Kike
  • Gook
  • Spick
  • Gypsy

I stopped and looked at the screen. Those words all looked really sinister. As I read over them I realized that I was such a spineless liberal that I had tried to be equally racist to everyone. I felt quite good about myself. I tried to keep this up for a few minutes before I my mind ran dry. I started trawling the internet for inspiration. I’m sorry to report that black people get it worse than anyone else. White people get off pretty easily.

There were seven sections in all, and I left the “Sex Section” until the end. I had been instructed to make sentences using some sexual terminology. I’m going to give you some of my choice sentences. There were 138 in total, but I feel that that is too many to post on here. I would like to post them all for the sake of emphasis, but I don’t want the funnier ones to get lost in the mess of bizzare sexual acts and definitions that exist on the Internet.

So, without further adieu, here are some of my favorites, with some explanations where considered necessary:

  • Sorry sir, I’m not into fist fucking.
  • Give me a foot job, love.
  • Cock fingering sounds painful.
  • Give me your poontang.
  • She did a queef.
  • I’m getting old, I need an Arab strap.
  • Show me your Spam Purse.
  • Do you want my love sausage?
  • I produce a lot of sperm.
  • I went to a bukkake party last night. I had no idea that’s what ‘bukkake’ meant.
  • She wanted to give me a Cleveland Steamer, but that’s where I drew the line.
  • I think that makes me gay for pay.
  • Bitch snowballed me.
  • I can’t come to the phone right now, I’m flicking my bean. Please leave a message after the tone.

As you can see, they started to get ridiculous towards the end. I couldn’t keep going in the sexual way that I had intended to. It didn’t matter in the end. I just needed to put the words into a sentence. In my head, I had no other option but to make them weird and funny.

I gave this list to my boss at the end of the day and she was shocked to find that it was 363 lines long. We haven’t looked one another in the eye since.

Glossary of Sexual Terminology

Snowball – the act of ejaculating in someone’s mouth and then kissing them afterwards.

Bukkake – where a group of men will all ejaculate on a girl’s face.

Spam purse – a gross terminology for a vagina.

Cleveland Steamer – when someone defecates on their partner’s chest.

Arab Strap – a penis ring that focuses the blood flow to the penis and helps a gentleman maintain an erection.

Queef – when a vagina breaks wind.

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With Love – Prequel – Part Five

“Okay, we need to go,” she said, standing up. She looked around again.

“Should we try and clean this place up a bit? Like take away our finger prints or something?”

“If we start going through this house trying to remember everything we touched we’ll be here, wiping door handles clean when the cops come through the door. No, we just try to get out of here without anyone seeing us.”

I took another swig from the bottle. I picked up a fresh lemon from the floor and bit into it. That twisted juice screwed my face. I was starting to feel piss drunk.

“And if they do?”

“Well then we’ve still got five bullets left each” she said, smiling, scratching her head with the gun. I took another drink and another bite of lemon. I wished we had more coke.

“I wish we had more coke” she said, looking at Esmeralda.

“I was just thinking that.”

“Tequila will have to do. Where is it?”

I gestured towards the cupboard beside Esmeralda. She walked over, stepping over the pool of blood on the floor, opening the cupboard and hitting Esmeralda with the door. She moved. I turned away. I took the last mouthful from the bottle and let the half chewed lemon fall onto the floor.

“One bottle? Two bottles?” she asked, holding up two bottles of the same shit I just finished. I was on the verge of being too fucked to think. The verge was not where I wanted to be.

“Two. Fuck it. And the lemons.”

She started picking them up from the floor and putting them into the bag with all the money. She zipped the bag up. I saw her smile as she looked around, taking everything in. She fixed on Esmeralda. Her smile sank a little. She pinched the bridge of her nose, and exhaled.

“Come on, let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“Okay” I said, drying my eyes again, wishing I could just wake up from this nightmare and lie awake in her arms until sunrise, where we would be free.


We jumped into the car and started up the engine. The sun was beginning to rise. The light was soft. She pointed in front of us. South. We would be at the border by sunset. The light would be too bright for the rest of the trip.

She kissed me on the cheek as I put my foot to the floor.

As I chased the horizon into the day, she drifted off to sleep without saying a word.We had thirty grand in cash, a stolen Cadillac, half a tank of gas, two bottles of Tequila, fourteen lemons, a maxed out credit card, two guns, ten bullets, no cocaine, and a love that would have to prove itself to us as long as the sun shone high in a sky that we stole in the night.

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With Love – Prequel – Part Four


We both sat in silence for a few minutes, passing the bottle of Jose Cuvero back and forth to one another. I felt frozen through but for the burning liquor running through me. It was like I’d been microwaved. We tried not to listen to the shouting going on above us. They were both screaming back and forth at one another. I pulled out my cigarettes and offered one to her. She shook her head and took a swig from the bottle. I watched her wince as it hit her tongue.

“I only married him for the green card you know” she said, sliding the bottle back to me.

“I know.”

“He’s a bastard. He beats me.”

I nodded.

“Please, let me go.”

I pretended I didn’t hear her. I just took another big swig from the bottle. I looked at the gun. I passed the bottle to her.

“Fuck you you bastard! You fucking raped us! Both of us!” I heard her shout through the roof.

I squeezed my eyes shut and snapped my fingers at Esmeralda. She slid the bottle back to me. I took another gulp and almost wretched. I squeezed my hands tight around the bottleneck and dug my fingers into my skull. I couldn’t stop thinking about my daddy. About when my big brother was her, but with knuckles, not bullets.

“Do you have any lemons?” I asked her, looking up. I knew I had tears in my eyes.

“Sure” she said, getting up and going to the refrigerator. As she opened the door the light bled into the room, drowning the candles out. I picked up the gun and looked at it in my hands.

“Fuck you you fucking piece of fucking shit!!!!!!” screamed Jolene from above.

We both looked up.




I picked myself up from the floor. I was shaking. I dropped the gun. I could see the little wisp of smoke rising from the barrel. I looked back up at the ceiling. I could only hear her footsteps. No arguing. No shouting. No screaming. Just soft, calm footsteps. I stood up. I looked at the refrigerator. I fell back to the floor as soon as I saw the blood. The bright white walls of the refrigerator were a bright, wet red. Esmeralda had huge dark hole in her forehead. Her eyes were open wide and staring at the door. Blood was still pouring from that hole, down her nose, over her mouth and onto her nightgown. There was an over-turned box of lemons on the floor. I puked on the white floor. I could taste the tequila and the coke mixing together like the chemicals in a battery, pouring from me. I puked again.

I heard Jolene jumping up and down on the bed, laughing. I sat with my back to Esmeralda, unable to move. Frozen again. I reached up and fished around for the bottle of tequila. I picked up one of the lemons that had rolled towards me. I took a big swig from the bottle and winced as I sank my teeth into the lemon. All that acid came through my teeth and onto my tongue and put a little back into that little battery inside me. I puked a little in my mouth. I swallowed it back down.

I looked over at the lemons on the floor next to me. I saw a trickle of blood run along the floor, making a river of the joins in the tiles. It looked a metallic black in the candle light. I took another swig. And another bite. I felt that warmth thaw me out a little more. I heard Jolene coming down the stairs. She was running. I puked in my mouth again.

She came around the doorframe quickly. I saw her wiping her eyes. They were a fresh red. She saw Esmeralda lying half in the refrigerator before she saw me sitting on the floor. She put on a smile.

“Oh great, you killed her! Jesus, she actually looks kind of beautiful like that, don’t you think?”

I said nothing. I took another swig from the bottle and bit the lemon again. I held the bottle out to her. I picked up a fresh lemon and passed it to her. She laughed and grabbed them both. She took a big gulp from the bottle and bit down hard on the lemon. She looked around and smiled as she took it all in. I looked at the bag by her side.

“Is that the money?” I asked.

“Yeah” she said, patting the bag, “About 30 grand I’d say. Not as much as I was hoping for. But it should be enough, for now.”

I nodded. I pushed my head into my hands and squeezed my eyes shut. I felt her come and sit next to me. Our backs against the work surface, facing away from Esmeralda. She slid her hand across my back and onto my shoulder.

“Are you getting over emotional again?”

I nodded.

“Look, that piece of shit got what was coming to him. And her, well, she just got caught in the crossfire. That’s just the way it works, sometimes.”

I nodded again. I knew how Esmeralda felt.

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With Love – Prequel – Part Two

I watched her walk through that opened gate with the cigarette hanging from her mouth. She held that big old gun next to her as she walked. I watched her walk past me and I could see her perfect round ass through her dress. I was still hard and I still wanted her. But I just stood still as she sank into the darkness.

We got to the back door. She started looking around for a key, turning over plant pots and lifting bricks. I got ready to put my elbow through the glass.

“Fuck. I can’t find the fucking key” she whispered at me.

“I’ll break the glass.” I said, nodding, feeling charged.

“No, wait, let’s think about this” she said as she put her hand on the handle and lent in. The door flew open and she fell onto the kitchen floor.

“Shit!” she shouted. I picked her up. We laughed a little.

“Are you okay button?” I asked.

“I’m fucking great sugar. Come on.”

We crept through the kitchen and started up the stairs. I guess it didn’t matter if ran up them or snuck up them. The outcome would be the same. At least this way it wouldn’t be as loud. I followed her shadow, just a little darker than the dark. We walked down the hallway and stopped at the door at the end. I could hear someone snoring through the door. It was one of them drunk snores that doesn’t care who else is trying to sleep. She’d told me her daddy was a big boozer.

“This is their room” she whispered, “I’m going to go in and stand above them. You’re going to stand at the door. When I’m ready, you flick the light on. Okay?”

“Yup” I said.

I started to get really nervous. I was still spinning from the line, but clicking the safety off a handgun outside your father-in-law’s bedroom as you gulped back a little blood from the chewed walls of your mouth was a sobering experience.

We opened the door quietly. I watched her creep over to the huge bed. I gently padded around for the light switch on the wall. When I found it I fished in my jacket pocket and pulled out my sunglasses. I didn’t want him to see as I was. I didn’t want him to see my dying eyes. I sat the glasses on the bridge of my nose. I looked over them at her as she positioned herself above her daddy and her step-mom. She turned to me and nodded. She was smiling. I could see her bright white teeth. That Colgate smile always sent a shudder through me. Like a little pulse of electricity. I pushed the glasses over my eyes and hit the lights.

“Morning daddy” she said, before bringing the butt of the pistol down on his nose. I saw the blood burst out. I heard him groan, her step-mom scream and Jolene laugh. I stayed silent. Just watching.


“Come and grab this bitch!” she shouted to me, still pointing that big old gun between the two of them. I rolled my shoulder up from the doorframe and walked across to the bed. Her step-mom was crying and saying some stuff in Spanish. She had tears coming streaming down her face. She was only a few years older than us. The blood from her father’s nose had splattered up the walls and was seeping onto the bed. But he was just lying there, deadly calm, like he’d been expecting us, looking through the gun, at the daughter he used to have that was holding it.

“Come with me” I said, grabbing her arm and helping her up off the bed. She looked straight at me. Her eyes weren’t so different from the way mine were in the car. Fighting death. She started to struggle a little. I squeezed her arm tighter and pushed the gun into her side. I smiled. The coke smiled.

“There’s no point fighting this” she said turning to her step-mom, smiling.

“What are you doing Catherine?” her daddy said. I looked over at him. Catherine? I wondered who the fuck Catherine was. It certainly wasn’t the same person that was pointing a gun in his face. Maybe he was all mixed. He was piss drunk. Just like she said he would be. I looked at his face. There wasn’t much in the way of similarities between them. He was all fat. He had blue eyes. But they both had that same little dimple on their chin. I always told her it was cute. She said she hated it.

She started laughing, throwing her head back.

“Because you did this to me” she said, pointing at the side of her head.

“Did what?” he asked again.

I just watched. I wanted to say something. I wanted to tell him to shut the fuck up. Or threaten to shoot him or something. But I couldn’t. I was frozen again. I just held onto his wife. My mother-in-law, I suppose.

“You fucked me up!?” she shouted, grabbing hold of his hair, pulling his bloody head back, pushing the gun into his broken nose. He screamed in pain.

I watched her steady hand holding the big gun. It didn’t flicker as she pushed it further into his bleeding nose. I had to turn away. I couldn’t watch. I had to leave. This had nothing to do with me.

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With Love – Prequel – Part One

We came rolling up to her daddy’s house at about 4am. I was driving, slowly, lights out. Creeping sort of. She knew exactly where to go.

“It’s the second house up there on the left,” she said, throwing her arm in front of me and pointing. I looked over at the big house with the wall around it. The whole situation suddenly felt exactly like it was. My cold sweats started up again as the car slowed.

“That big one?” I asked.



I brought the car up to the sidewalk and switched the engine off. The music stopped playing and everything went so quiet. There was a little cricket whistling somewhere to the side. I threw my cigarette out the window and turned to her. She was putting her lipstick on in the mirror. She had gone for red today. I watched her pout those full red lips out at herself.

“So what are we doing then?” I asked.

She raised an eyebrow and turned her eyes to me. I saw one of those little smiles come across those big red lips. She kissed the color out. She turned to me and took my hands. My cold sweaty hands.

“Okay, so first, we’re going in. You’re going over the wall. There will be a keypad on the left hand pillar, next to the gate. You press the little green button. That one opens the gate. Then I come in.”


“Okay, so then we go round the back. We can break in through the back door. We creep upstairs, go into their bedroom and tie those motherfuckers up. You deal with that bitch. I’ll take care of that piece of shit.”

“Okay” I said again, looking down at my cold hands in hers. They looked just fine without any blood on them. I exhaled with some force. I just wanted her to know how I felt about all of this. I wanted her to know that I would do anything for her. But I wanted her to know that she could never ask me for more than this. This was my limit.

“Look, I know that you don’t want to do this. But my ‘for’ is much stronger than your ‘against’. I need to do this. And I need you to help me.”

I looked up at her and smiled. Her big eyes were blinking softly at mine, soaking up and keeping tight. I looked back at her hands, and nodded.

“Great! Now get that coke out. We need some electricity.”

I smiled. I went into the glove box and pulled out the wrap. This was the last of the coke we bought before we left LA. Almost eight grams of electricity had rushed around our body in the last three days. Through our noses, into our blood, into our heart, into our liver and out somewhere, into something. We forced ourselves to leave just one more line each for this. We didn’t want to need something we couldn’t get. We were in crystal meth country. And we knew that we’d rather crave coke than end up craving crystal. But leaving those two big lines had been hard. When you’d been thrashing it like we had it was tough to just stop. You could hear the shit whispering at you from the glove box, drowning out the growling of the engine and the grinding of your teeth. We’d been hitting it for what felt like weeks. But that was only cause we hadn’t slept for days for the tweaks and the twists.

“Okay, but me first. You owe me that much” I said with a smile.

“Of course sugar” she replied, leaning over and kissing my hair.

I pulled out the Cadillac manual and carefully poured what was left out onto the picture of our big red car. I started moving the stuff around with Mr. Daniel Ford’s maxed out credit card, taking every last grain and shifting it around. Poor Mr. Daniel Ford, whoever he was. I stopped and looked at the big fat lines. They were identical. I felt my hand start to shake a little and my heart start to race. I cut a little of mine and pushed it onto hers. She needed that extra power. Damn triggers are heavy rocks to move. I rolled up my last Andrew Jackson and leant into the book. I looked right into the front seat where I sat and vacuumed the line, passing her the book and closing my eyes. I sucked the stuff back into my throat as I let my face freeze. I felt my hand steady but my heart start to thump in my chest. I looked at my dark eyes in the mirror. They looked like they were dying with a fight.

I watched her lean over and blast the last of what we had. She sat up and wiped her nose. She grabbed my hand licked my fingers. She rubbed them across the manual, getting every little bit we’d missed, and put them into her mouth. I felt her soft tongue run around my fingers. I started to get hard. I kissed her. I smelt her hair, felt her body and tasted the last of the coke. I wanted to grab her and fuck her right there in the open air. Forget all this madness for a few minutes. But we both needed this buzz. I opened the glove box and pulled out our guns. I had mine and she had hers. I saw those dying eyes of mine in the reflection from the barrel. I checked the chamber and hoped that there would only be one bullet missing from each by the time we reached Playa del Carmen.

“Alright,” she said, throwing the manual onto the back seat “let’s go kill my daddy!”


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Freedom Fighters – Part Two

“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’.

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Freedom Fighters – Part One


I should explain before you start reading the story: this is written entirely in Scots. I have never done anything as extreme as this before and I’m sure that you probably haven’t read much that is as extreme in its slang and dialect as this. But if you’re familiar with Irvine Welsh then this shouldn’t be a problem. You just have to get the accent in your head. But I’m quite fond of this story as it is about my home town. So, if you feel like giving it a go, I have put a glossary of terms at the bottom in the comments section.

I should also point out that it’s fucking long. But you know, sometimes things are long. And it is very heavy on bigotry and sectarianism. You should know that these opinions are not my own. But perhaps you’ll get a peak into the side of Scotland rarely experienced unless you’re really a part of it.

I hope that you enjoy it x


Ah’d bin meaning tae take the boy oot fir a pint fir few weeks. He’d bin doon. No his normal chatty self. The cheeky wee cunt could talk the spokes aff a wheel when he got goin. But no recently. That wee lassie Mary had geed him the elbow and he was feelin’ bluer than Eric Clapton’s back catalogue. Ah had nuthin oan and he’d just finished his exams. Ah thought ah’d dae some of that father an son bonding stuff ye hear so much about. At least gie it a fuckin’ try fir once.

“Fancy a pint?” ah said, no lookin’ doon from ma paper. Ah had made ma way back fae the fitbaw and was at the horses. Ah always lost interest in the paper when ah got tae the horses. The front three pages and the back three pages were all ah gave a fuck aboot these days.

“What?” he said.

“Pint? Roon the Clachan like?” ah asks again. There was only wan pub tae go tae in this fuckin’ village, but ah never got oot the habit of specifyin’ which pub we went tae.

“Aye” he said, like he wasnae bothered but he’d go if ah wanted tae. Ah didnae drink roon the pub durin’ the week these days. Usually just hod a couple a cans an a wee Bob Marley in front ah the telly. But we needed tae have a chat. And ah didnae want his fuckin’ mother walkin’ in oan us talkin’ man’s stuff like. She’d bin gettin’ oan ma fuckin’ wick recently.

Ah folded ma paper and sat it doon on the couch. Ah looked at the boy. He was still lookin’ doon. Ah could see him watchin’ that bloody phone ah his. Fuckin’ thing was a new limb for kids these days. That’s whit evolution brought us! A fuckin’ smart phone attached to a bunch of fuckin’ idiots. Ah pulled maself up and stood above him. He wis taller than me these days but ah reckon ah needed tae be the big man in this situation. So ah looked doon oan him.

“Come on then” ah said.

He sighed and stood up. Ah watched him grow up in hof a second, gettin’ taller and taller till he passed me. He probably had another couple of years left in him. Ah reckon ah knew how he felt then. A big man growin’ too big for that cage he wis kept in.

We walked tae the front door. He put his coat oan. Ah cud feel ma knees crackin’. Ah sighed as ah dragged oot the wheelchair and unfolded it. Ah heard the auld thing squeak. Ah fuckin’ hated that fuckin’ thing. But ah couldnae leave the hoos wi oot it. No in this village ah fuckin’ spiers and liars. The last hing this wobbly family needed was a knock fae the social tellin’ me ah wis getting’ done fir fraud. That’d be the death ay us. But the wee man knew the score. Even if he didnae like the rules, he still played the game. And ah could nivir knock him fir that.


“So how’d you reckon yer exams went son?” ah said to him, takin’ a wee sip of that shite they pass off as ale in Clachan. Ah wis sure ah could taste some ah Donny Dribble’s dribble in it.

“Fine. I think.”

Fuck me. Come on son, ah thought. Give me mare than that tae work wi!?

“Aye?” ah said, lookin’ roon at the clientele in misery HQ. Each wan eh them, like a big drip a water.

“Aye” he said.

We both sat there fir a minute. He wis lookin’ at that bloody phone. Waitin’ fir it tae ring. Ah didnae get offended though. Ah knew it wasnae me that wis makin’ him like that. He wis wantin’ a text fae that wee bird. Ah’d been there. In ma day it was a chap oan the door, or a shout up tae the windae. Times huv changed pal.

Ah looked at him lookin’ all sad. His hair wis growin’ oot and he wis lookin’ less and less like every other cunt around here every day. His mother said that that wis his father’s doin’. Ah knew that fine and well. When his mother met me ah had hair doon tae ma arse and a beard tae ma tits. He couldnae grow a beard yit, but ah’m sure he wid wan day. But even as he sat there, wi a pint an a fag, ah could see him growin’ afore ma eyes. He reminded me a me when ah was like him.

“Ah know what it’s like son.” ah says, eventually breakin’ that silence, sittin’ ma pint ah dribble doon and rollin’ up a fag.

“Like whit’s like?” he says, starin’ at the phone that naebiddy’s callin’.

“Tae feel like ye dinnae belong.”

He looked at us. He swept that hair oot his eyes. Ah could see ah’d gone a bit deeper than ah’d been afore. He wis just sittin’ in thought. Ah wis just gonnae let him stew fir a minute. Hink about it. That father son stuff is surely somethin’ boy.

“Ah wis an ootsider here. Ah still um. There are some people in this village that willnae let ye forget that. Ah came here in 1974. 1970 fuckin’ 4 son. That’s a long time tae be stuck in a shit tip like this.”

He smiled and nodded a wee bit. The big wee man knew the score.

“Ah came tae this village as a Catholic hippy fae the city. Fae Glesga no less. Embiddy commin fae Glesga tae this place has tae huv somethin’ tae say fir themselves. Cause they hate ye. Just fir that alone. Of course, bein’ a Catholic here back then wis like bein’ a Jew in a fuckin’ mosque. We’re talkin’ about Achna-fuckin’-fachel here son.” Ah says, hammerin’ ma point hame by hittin’ ma glass doon on the table. He looks at us. Ah knew he understood, a bit. There were mair blue noses here than on the Smurf’s fuckin’ Christmas album. But times hud changed. He wid nivir really know whit it wis like tae be hated fir a choice yir parents parents parents made hunners a years ago.

“They didnae want us here. This bar used tae huv a sign outside sayin’ “Fenian free since 1953”. ‘53 wis the year the quarry closed an all the Catholics left. The locals made it pretty clear they didnae want oor types here. And oan tap eh bein’ a Catholic, ah hud long scraggly hair and a big daft beard!? It wis like ah wis tryin’ tae make em hate me. Ah hink a little part of me always will.” Ah looked aroon the bar again. Ah looked at the Rangers taps on the cavemen’s backs. Ah put ma hond tae ma heart, right oan the tri-colour and the lyrics fae the “Fields of Athenry” tattoo ah’d goat twenty year ago. We baith smiled. We baith knew whit wis under that shirt ah mine. It was mah fuckin’ Star a David. Ma brandin’. A fuck you tae the filthy hun establishment that put honest wurkin’ cunts like me in the fuckin’ wheely chair fir a wee wage and a giggle. “So ah know whit it’s like son.”

He didnae say anythin’. Ah took a big swally and cooled aff. It aw ways got me heated when ah thought about they dirty orange bastards. He just sat there aw slumped. Tae say he reminded me ah maself wid be bein’ blindly sentimental. In truth he wis mare ai his mother’s son thin his faither’s son. He wis aw ways a bit soft. Aw ways cryin’. Ah thought fir years he wid grow up a poofter. Tae say ah wis relieved when he started seein’ that wee Mary lassie wid be an understatement. But it nivir stoaped me hinkin’ thir wis somethin’ funny about the wee cunt.

“Ah left Glesga in ’74. Ad hud a fallin’ oot wi ma faither. Ye know fine well how that turned oot.”

The boy nodded. Ah’d telt him a hunner times aboot that drunken auld bastard. He could slap a squint straight that cunt.

“Ah wis loast. Ma first bird Florence hud just fucked off wi ma cousin Jerry an the ship yards were layin’ boys aff left an right. Ah thoat ‘fuck it’, time fir a change. Billy Breeks hud moved up here a couple a months afore and he wis aw ways tellin’ me how it wis the hippy paradise. The quiet life fir the workin’ man. Me bein’ the daft hippy cunt ah wis back then, ah thoat ‘why not?’ Ah kin cut it wi they teuchter cunts. So up ah came. Got ma pay oan the Friday, packed ma shit oan the Saturday, on Billy’s flare by the Sunday. And that wis that.”

The boy looks up at me. He looks at me like ah’ve just pished oan his fish.

“Why the fuck are you tellin’ me this?” he says. “Whit fuckin’ difference does this make tae me!?”

“Ho!” ah says, raisin’ ma backhond tae the wee cunt. Ah’d smacked so many cheeky smiles aff that wee cunt’s face that I hod his grin printed oan the back of ma hond. “Ah’m tellin’ ye aboot ma life! Maybe ye kin learn a fuckin’ thing or two.”

“Whit? Like how tae be a fuckin’ work dodgin’ pish-heed?” he snaps.

We sit opposite wan another, locked in a stare. If we were in the hoose ah’d’ve leathered the leather aff his arse. And he knew it. Smart wee cunt. But we were no in the hoose. We were in a pub. Ah just kept starin’ him oot. He looks right fuckin’ back in all. Ah wanted tae fuckin’ tan him. But fir the first time he’s no lookin’ scared ah me. He’s lookin’ fuckin’ ready. Like ah’ve seen a hunner boys look afore. But somewhere inside the wee cunt, ah see the wee boy ah raised tae be that man starin’ back at me. Ah put ma hond doon. Ah take another swally ah ma pint.

“Ah’m just tryin’ tae tell ye a thing or two. Ah wis young once. Fuckin’ young. Ah wis younger than you when ah wis older than you. Just you fuckin’ remember that.” Ah says, pointin’ ma fag at him, no quite sure whit that meant. But ah knew it sounded like somethin’ Davy Flash wid say.

“Ah know. Sorry da” he says, heed down, checkin’ at that phone again.

“It’s no bother,” ah says, coolin’ aff again. “Ah’m just tryin’ tae help.”

“I know.”

We baith took a big gulp, in silence.

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Beatin’ Blud

It happened at the little paki shop last week man. I was in there right, didn’t have no money obviously. I had a pot to piss but I sold it. Times is hard blud. Hard. But I went in on the blag innit. I was gonna rob some magazines and maybe sell them for a few a quid. Just enough to get a hit. No more than that man. Like I said, times is hard, man.

I frew my hood up as soon as I get in. Pulled ma jeans up and done the belt up one more hole. Laced up my trainers in case I had to run like fuck. I catch maself in that bent mirror they always have the Paki shops. I can see ma lips but not ma eyes. I gave myself a little kiss in the mirror. The bacon sarnie comes out the back room and looks me up and down. I can feel his eyes takin’ it all in. Pickin’ my lips out of a line of boys. I can feel that slash in my pocket, ready to be flicked and waved around, putting that fuckin’ Paki on the floor. I thought, if it comes to that, I ain’t robbin’ no fuckin’ magazines man. I’m goin’ for the pot blud, believe.

“You!” he shouts at me. I know he’s shoutin’ at me. I look around though. Pretend I’m completely innocent man. Cause I am. At dis point the only fing I’m guilty of is intent. Well, that and the blade. “No hood in this shop.”

“You talkin’ to me?” I say back. I’m finkin’, ‘Cool blud! Don’t give him a reason to lose his cool. You’re just in for a magazine man. Men’s Health, FHM, somefin like that. Maybe the till, but we’ll cross that bridge man. In time. In time.’

“Yes, you!” he shouts. He’s holdin’ one of them big French bread stick fings and he’s pointin’ it at me. It’s in a brown a bag. It looks for a minute like he’s robbin’ me. I square up a bit. My hands clench around that blade. I feel the muscles go tight up at the itchy join on my arm. “No hoods up in this shop!”

“I ain’t takin’ off nuffin’” I say, lookin’ back him.

“Then you get the fuck out!” he shouts, not backin’ down, not fuckin’ scared, not fuckin’ knowin’ nuffin’.

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere you fuckin’ paki cunt.”

He come stormin’ round to me, past the crisps, past the sweeties. I thumb around for the button on the handle. I pop out the blade. Just as he gets in front of me he looks right into ma eyes. I look at his. His ain’t scared, no way. I don’t have time to look in that little mirror, but I reckon mines was probably shittin’ it man. I could feel the heart poundin’. I knew I was gonna stick him.

I stabbed him. Free times I fink. I remember him hunchin’ over me, grabbin’ at my hood. I was focusin’ on the blade, keepin’ it tight. I could feel it pressin’ against somefin hard. Maybe a rib or somefin. Just as he pulls the hood down I lose it man. He grabs my neck and gets right up in ma face.

“You motherfuck” he says, veins bulgin’ from his head, eyes goin’ well red man.

I pull out the steel and jam it back in him again. Two times. Bang. Bang. I push him back onto the floor. He knocks over a load of postcards as he falls. All dem London Union Jack cards all over the place. Right next to his head is one of them “I heart London” postcards. He’s squimin’ on the floor. I looked down at the blood on my top. It looked well red. I ain’t never seen dat much before. The more there is, the redder it is. That’s what I reckon man. My heart was beatin’ blud. Boom. Boom. Boom. I stood there standin’. Watchin’ him and that blood, all over the floor.

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With Love – Part Six

“Any last words?” she asked.

“I love you more than life.”

“I love you more than death”

The cars screeched to a halt about thirty yards behind us. The helicopter flew over head. The light shot over us and then moved back. The dust whipped up all round us. In that bright light from above I saw how beautiful she looked.

“Drop your weapons and step out of the vehicle!” shouted a cop through his megaphone. We could only just hear him over the music and the helicopter.

She blew me a kiss. I blew her one back.

“Three, two, one” I said.

We pointed the guns at one another, closing our eyes, ending everything, just as it had started. With love.


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