‘They seemed remarkably unfazed by the phenomenon,’ said a senior zookeeper. ‘It looks like they’ve already picked up some of that famous Scottish stoicism.’
Evan Barksdale’s mouth sets tightly as Jonty MacKay comes into the bar and asks for a glass of milk. It’s poured by Sandra, the barmaid, very nicely, Jonty thinks. — There ye go, Jonty.
Of course Jonty is aware that the boys in the corner are looking at him with the milk. Then Craig Barksdale shouts him over. — You picked up a Bonyrigg Rose, Jonty? STD clinic? Like the clap?
— Nowt like that, naw sur, jist tryin no tae drink, naw sur, Jonty shakes his head. — Bad fir ye tae drink too much, aye sur.
— Is it fuck!
— Mulk in Thepubweynaename! Plitikill kirrectniss gone mad! Deek offers.
Jake, who has been behind the bar polishing glasses, looks at Jonty and says, — That milk’s on the house, pal.
— Thanks, Jake, aye, thanks . . .
— Ah hear that you’re good at the paintin, Jonty.
— Aye, the paintin, aye sur, aye, aye aye . . .
— No fancy daein the pub here? It wid huv tae be early-morning shifts though, cause ah cannae afford tae shut it. Yir jist acroass the street but!
Jonty considers this. The extra money would come in handy. — Aye, Jake, ah kin git up early, aye sur, aye . . .
Evan Barksdale, who has heard this exchange, lifts his eyes from the
Record
on the table. As Jonty joins them, he hears Evan postulate, — This fuckin panda business, ah kent thaire wis something no right aboot that. Notice how they’ve awready admitted that thir Fenian bastards!
Tony chips in, — The two pandas they goat fae China at the zoo ur Fenian bastards?
— Aye.
— Beat it!
— Ah’m fuckin tellin ye!
— Git away!
Jonty’s eyes go from Evan to Tony.
— Stoap that wi yr eyes, ya muppet, Evan goes. — It’s like he’s at fuckin Wimbledon! Hi-hi-hi-hi!
Laughter ripples around the table. — Hi-hi-hi-hi-hi!
Jonty wonders what they mean by this. There is no tennis here, in this pub.
— They awready called yin ‘Sunshine’ like ‘Sunshine on Leith’, n thir sayin it’s a Hibs supporter, Evan Barksdale says. — Dirty fuckin Fenian Chinky Hobo tramps. Just when the council fuckin backtracks on its pledge tae help us wi a new stadium!
— Yir no wrong, Barksie, Lethal Stuart cuts in. — Notice how that Hobo tramp Riordan went ower tae China tae play? Then the next thing ye hear is that thaire’s two fuckin pandas headin tae Edinburgh? These fuckin specky Proclaimer cunts’ll be playin a gig ower thaire next!
— Hi-hi-hi-hi-hi! Tony laughs.
— Aye, ye might fuckin laugh, but it’s no right. Evan Barksdale shakes his head and looks at Jonty. — What you fuckin well sayin then, Jonty?
— Ah like pandas, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur, but ah dinnae think thir bothered aboot Hibs n Herts. Mair likely tae be Dunfermline or St Mirren wi they colours. Aye sur, black n white, sur. Aye. Aye. Aye. Dunfermline. Aye. St Mirren. Aye.
— Goat ye thaire, Barksie, Tony goes.
— Fuck pandas, Evan Barksdale sneers. — Dinnae even see what the fuss is aboot wi they daft cunts. Thi’ll no ride each other tae save thirsels fae extinction n thi’ll no change thair diet.
— A plitikly kirrect bear, Deek says. — Madness!
— Same again? Craig Barksdale points to the emptying glasses. — Tennent’s?
— Aye. Tennent’s, says Tony.
— Aye. Git ays another pie n aw then, ya cunt . . . Lethal Stuart appeals. — Ah’ll gie ye the money!
— Aye, Tennent’s, says Evan Barksdale.
Craig Barksdale turns to Jonty. — What you wantin then?
— Naw sur, naw sur, ah’m fine jist sippin at ma mulk, aye sur.
Craig Barksdale rolls his eyes but is quite relieved that Jonty has refused a beer. — Aye, they dinnae ride, they fuckin pandas, he sings to his brother.
— Ya cunt, Tony announces, — ah could go a decent ride right now!
— Hi-hi-hi-hi-hi!
— So you no gaunny git Jinty in the family wey then, Jonty? Tony asks.
— Hi-hi-hi-hi-hi! They all sit round in their seats to study Jonty’s reaction.
— Naw, a crestfallen Jonty tells them. — Naw sur. Naw.
— It’s aw fuckin money, bairns n that but, Jonty, Tony says sadly. — Yir life’s no yir ain. It’s good tae gie a burd a bairn, it stoaps thum ridin aboot wi other boys; unless it’s a real slag, of course. A real slag will ey ride aboot n thaire’s nowt ye kin dae aboot it. But mark ma wurds Jonty, gie a lassie a bairn – jist yin or two mind, cause any mair wrecks a burd in the fanny department. The ridin’s nivir the same eftir a bairn. Ma Liza, she jist lies back n takes it. Nae enthusiasm. He shakes his head sadly. — Is it still like it wis it the start whin you ride wee Jinty, Jonty?
— Naw, Jonty tells him, now feeling very sad. Cause it wasn’t like that.
— This conversation’s takin a fuckin depressin turn, Evan Barksdale shouts. — That’s wi fuckin Christmas comin up but, ay.
— Aye, meant tae be the season ay goodwill, Lethal Stuart says. — Any cunt goat ching? Some cunt phone some fucker!
Jonty can no longer stand it. — Ah’ve goat tae go, aye sur, that ah have, he says, rising from his chair.
— Aye, thaire’s money there, Jonty hears Evan Barksdale contend, his adversary raising his voice as he leaves the pub. — Sneaky wee cunt, n he gits tae paint the pub! When did he last buy a fuckin round? That’s aw ah’m sayin, Tony.
Jonty pushes through the doors and heads down the street reasoning that it is unfair that he should buy a round of drinks when he is only on free milk. It is growing cold again, but the rain has stopped, although the pavements are black with wet, and frosting in patterns that entrance him. On an impulse, he puts the sole of his shoe on one, destroying the intricate ornamentation, almost moved to tears that his actions have resulted in the elimination of something so beautiful.
A free newspaper, lying discarded on the pavement, distracts him from his pain. He picks it up.
He isn’t that long back in the flat when the doorbell rings. Jonty keeps the door on the chain, only opening it to the extent of its meagre limit. A young woman looks back at him, her nose wrinkling, as if she smells something bad and Jonty has to concede that it is a bit dirty indoors, with Jinty being ill. The house needs cleaned. He will have to pull his weight more.
— Is Jeentee in? The girl sounds foreign. Maybe Polish. — I am Saskia, a friend of hers from work.
— Naw, Jonty says, shaking his head. — Naw she is not, naw sur, naw naw naw . . . n she’s no gaun back tae that place either, he informs Saskia, thinking about The Pub With No Name. — Ah ken aw aboot what happens at that place! Aye ah do! Durty things! Aye sur, aye sur . . .
Saskia puts her hand across her chest, a gesture Jonty reads as indicating shame. — I am sorry, I know it isnae good but I needed to get money . . .
— Cause it’s wrong what happens in that place!
And Saskia hangs her head and slopes away, thinking of her family in Gdansk, how it would destroy them if they knew the source of the money she sent home every week by Western Union wire transfer, as Jonty considers Barksie and that evil cocaine and what it has done to them all. A rage bubbles inside him. To calm himself, he picks up the free newspaper and reads slowly.
Scotland’s smokers have been praised for their heroism, standing up to extremely inhospitable elements in the form of the devastating hurricane known dismissively as ‘Bawbag’ by locals. As the storm raged to its height around 1am, clusters of smokers spontaneously left the bars of Edinburgh’s Grassmarket, where they struck up a rousing, defiant rendition of ‘Flower of Scotland’. But instead of standing against ‘proud Edward’s Army’, as in Roy Williamson’s famed lyric, they subsistuted this with ‘Hurricane Bawbag’. Plasterer Hugh Middleton, 58, said, ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. We just roared our song out into the night. Amazingly, the hurricane seemed to die out after that. So we really did send Bawbag “homewards tae think again”. I suppose the message is that if you come to Scotland, behave yourself and you’ll be looked after. But if you step out of line . . .’
Politicians have been quick to heap praise on the courageous puffers. Local MSP George McAlpine said, ‘Scotland’s smokers have had a rough time of it lately, but they showed great fortitude and inspirational courage.’
Jonty feels himself bursting with pride, silver tears trickling down his cheeks, and wishes that, despite the health risks, he was a smoker.
It has started to rain heavily again. Sheets of icy water lash down. Saskia turns up her collar, wincing in despair, as cold water runs down the back of her neck. As she approaches Haymarket, a horn toots and a taxi rolls up alongside her.
— Hop in, doll!
Saskia looks at the beaming smile and mop of corkscrew curls.
— I do not have money –
— Hi! This is me yir talkin tae! Hop in!
She doesn’t need to be asked a third time.
As they drive through town, Terry considers the saying ‘a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush’. He concludes that your hand in a bird’s bush, though, is something you can’t put a price on . . . unless you were down in Liberty Leisure. Then it was about fifty bar. This is the direction he’s heading off in with Saskia, who says to him, — I go and see Jinty, but she is not in and her boyfriend says she isnae coming back. I think he knows what she was doing here and has stopped it.
— Well, that’s a shame, Terry says, enjoying the Edinburgh affectations of Saskia’s Eastern European accent, — ah liked that lassie. Rough as fuck and a wee bit mental, but she was sound. Where did she go?
— He did not say. Her boyfriend, he was a strange man.
— We aw are, hen, and so are youse. Terry gives her a smile, elicting one back from Saskia which strips away her worries, changing her face to reveal an intense, paralysing beauty, which lights Terry up from the inside.
Ya fucker . . .
In moments of self-candour, Terry conceded he actually thrived on damaged girls. Somebody with her own career, place, money in the bank, no mental health issues . . . that was fine for a while, but they soon tended to suss him out, once they’d had their rations of Auld Faithful. The nutters are hard work, yes, but they certainly keep coming back for more.
— When are you for finishing your shift?
— Once ah’ve droaped you oaf tae start yours, that’s me done. Goat tae meet a buddy.
— I can get out here if it is easier for you . . .
— Nae worries, wir aw good. Terry checks the time on his dashboard. Ten minutes later, he feels a little sad as he watches her step out the cab, a discreet distance from Liberty. No formal pact is made, but both know it would do neither any good to be seen together by Kelvin.
So now he is off to meet Ronald Checker at the Balmoral. Terry notices that Ronnie is sporting a sheepish coupon.
Nice tae see such a boastful rich fucker oan the telly looking like he kens he’s made a complete twat of himself!
— Where to, Ronnie?
— That Haddington place.
— So ye survived Bawbag then, Terry teases.
— Yes . . . sorry about that. I guess I overreacted. See, I was there at Katrina, Ronnie lies, — as part of a government-backed task force. These people didn’t want our help, our leadership. It wasn’t the administration’s fault; the liberal media distorted it. But I saw a lot of shit. I guess I expected something on the same scale here.
— Aye, wisnae much ay a hurricane, or no that ah noticed. Terry pats his groin. — Ah wis involved in ma ain wee tornado at the time.
— Hell, I’ll bet you were! That gal was a feisty one, Terry, Ronnie declares, then his voice drops as his features seem to rush to the middle of his face. — You know, it’s always been a fantasy of mine to hate-fuck with one of those Occupy bitches! She ain’t got any buddies, huh?
Terry isn’t totally sure what Ronnie means, but is moved to consider the sexual encounters he’s enjoyed with posh fanny. Yes, opposites can attract, especially in the bedroom. At least in the short term. — No sure, but ah’ll ask her, mate.
They head out to East Lothian, which seems remarkably unscathed by Bawbag. At a stretch of woods that lead to the beach, they get out and look around. Ronnie is animated, the wind slapping the Mohawk across his skull like a comb-over. — Imagine if this place was a state-of-the-art golf course . . . cut down those trees, level and landscape the area around it, some luxury apartments . . . hell, we could revitalise this shithole!
Terry thinks it looks just fine as it is but keeps his counsel. In this game it is prudent to keep the customer sweet. Let them obsess over whatever shite they want. After all, everybody has their obsessions; yes, he concedes, even him.
— Whaddya think? Ronnie asks, crushing some wet bracken under the heel of his shoe.
— Cunts huv nae vision but, mate, Terry replies, trying to work out if this is a ‘we need to free ourselves from Westminster’s shackles’ or a ‘we’re muppets who couldn’t possibly run the place on our own’ number. Undecided, he ventures, — But ah’m no sayin nowt against nae cunt, mind. Huv tae say but, ah like the woods. Ye cannae compromise too many outside-shaggin sites.
This scarcely seems to register with Ronnie, who is breathing in deeply, filling his lungs. — Air sure is so sweet and fresh here, he concedes.
The next port of call is the council chambers in Haddington. Terry has fond memories of this town, with images of a girl from here dancing in his mind. As he parks outside the building, a man emerges to meet and greet Ronnie and usher him inside. Terry watches them depart into the old council building, and stretches out and yawns.
The rain has stopped, with the sky clearing up as dark clouds charge west with menacing intent, opening up a pallid blue. Terry exits the cab, then sees Ronnie’s Apple Mac on the back seat, and gets in, idly opening it. It’s still powered up. He goes online, looking for his favourite gaming site, and is tempted by a long shot at Haydock. He resists, moving on to Sick Boy’s pornographic website, X-tra Perversevere, and has an exhibitionist’s desire to show Ronnie
The Fuck Locker: The Exploding Sex Bomb
, which he regards as the best of his recent work. It culminates in him trying to bring off the frigid al-Qaeda operative, played by his friend Lisette, who is wired by remote control to a set of explosives in the Bora Bora caves (filmed near Dover), whereby her orgasm will detonate them and bring the entire terrorist network down. He thinks that it will chime with Ronnie’s politics. Then he is delighted to see that Sick Boy has finally put up the porn-football-hooligan film they did last year.
The Biggest Hardest Mob
is about a group of football-thug studs who learn that their main opposition mob have taken their girlfriends to Majorca. They drug the opposition mob, then film a full-on orgy with their rivals’ partners, which they later play back on the big stadium screens at the next meeting between the two teams. This is one you have to take your time with though, and Terry is pleased to see from the trailer that his love handles look tight.