Waggon and Horses is dead and Kelly reckons you should slow down and wait for the hen party, saying that now because he has to meet Ange in the Elephant, but a bloke at the bar reckons there’s been a fight in Smith’s Arms and you think you should skip it and go straight to the Old Globe, but you end up supping up even faster which pisses off Mark the Fireman because he’s just put a load more bollocks on the jukebox, Whiter Shade of Pale for fucking starters, and someone drops a Tampax from fuck-knows-where in his pint to hurry him along, not that it’s used or stops him downing the pint in one.
Are islands lost in tears -
Landlord in Smith’s Arms says there was a few broken glasses was all, nothing he couldn’t handle, group of lads from Stanley on a Run, heard that Streethouse were coming into town looking for them, these lads fancying their chances but getting a bit edgy, few broken glasses was all, the hen party coming in, but your seal’s just gone and you’re stood staring at the bloody bogies wiped on the wall above the bog where someone’s written the Paunchy Cowboys and stuck up bits of bog roll everywhere with their own shit.
The room white.
Stopper and Norm are in the Old Globe and it’s half-seven already, the big old map of the world and pictures of ships which traditionally dictates a Captain Morgan’s followed by a Barley Wine and cider, Stopper shouting Ahoy! as his shipmates board, going on stoned about Captain Pugwash, the Black Pig and Master Bates, and you start on about The Flying Dutchman when you swear you hear Procul bloody Harem come on the sodding jukebox again but Hally says there isn’t a fucking jukebox you pissed fat legal cunt, never has been, not here.
You have dreams -
In Swan with Two you find the hen party again, better looking by the pint, specially one with the short brown hair who’s bound to be the bleeding fucking bride, not that she’d look at a fat cunt like you anyway, not that there’s a wedding ring in sight on any of them says Kelly, not that a ring means any-bloody-thing thinks Dickie, and she smiles as she goes to the bogs and tells Kelly to fuck off when he does his been-for-a-shit-darling routine as she comes out, her hair smelling of shampoo and smoke and you wonder if she did have a shit or just a piss, perched over the seat, not wanting to touch it.
And in your dreams -
Daz catches up with you in Henry Boons and he’s up to Hird now, the various crimes he should be shot or hung for, way he’s played this season, all Eddie Gray’s fault anyway, he picks the fucking team doesn’t he, fat bastard, no offence John, but everyone sups up quick, except Kel because Ange and her mates will be in Elephant which you think is good news because she’s got some nice mates has Ange, but you do have time for a swift one in Mid before Elephant, so you head up the back way past the Prison, everyone breaking into a chorus of Born Free as you go, everyone except you.
In your dreams, you see things -
The Mid stinks of damp, full of punks and students from the Tech, a couple of blokes from Labour Club who want to talk politics until it’s obvious state you’re in you can’t, not that it stops you taking piss out of Thatcher in this morning’s Post with her vision of a return to the eternal values of the Victorian era, ruling Britain into the 1990s, until she gets another bomb from the Yorkshire Republican Army that is, and that’s you that is, the YRA, but then you think you’re going to puke and you run for the bogs, the Barley Wine coming back up then straight back down your bloody nose.
But all these things in all your dreams -
Ange isn’t even in Elephant and now Kel’s pissed off and the pool room is packed and someone reckons Streethouse are on their way and with Stanley about it seems a bit of a bad night and then a glass smashes and everyone jumps and Sarn says it’s just the speed, just the speed, but in the bogs you wonder what you ought to do and Hally says he’s up for a club but none of you have ties and most of you are in jeans and none of you can be arsed to go home and change, so it’ll have to be Raffles or somewhere shit like that because you’ll not get in Casanovas, not dressed like this, not now.
Are big black raven things -
Fuck knows who said there are always a load of good-looking lasses in Evergreens, all you can see are a gang of Siouxsie fucking Siouxs giving you daggers until Wilf the punk dwarf who you represented when he was done for pissing against Balne Lane library after he lost one of his brothel creepers and he couldn’t hop and hold it all the way home to Flanshaw, until Wilf the punk dwarf says Streethouse have been nicked at top of Westgate after a fight with some lads from Stanley, and he used to call you Petrocelli and ended up with a fifty quid fine while you and his old man got done for contempt.
The room blue.
Kelly was in Friars and says same about Streethouse when you meet him and Dickie and Ange with one of her mates back in Graziers for last, Daz and Foz still in Elephant talking to two lasses from the hen party, which is bloody fucking typical, but now it’s you and Sarn talking ten to dozen, feeling top of the world, and Mark says Gareth’s puking in bogs but that’s only because that wasn’t really a Glenfiddich in Evergreens, thinks he’ll be all right for Raffles or Dolly Grays or wherever you’re off but he wishes you’d make up your fucking minds, Hally suddenly silent, his eyes red.
You have dreams -
Outside Kel and them are going back to theirs or Norm’s and you ought to do too he says because Raffles is going to be shit and full of fucking freaks and he’s a ton of fucking draw back at his, but you always go back to his or Norm’s every Friday and Saturday and it’s Gareth’s fucking birthday so why don’t they all come up to Raffles too, but Ange is working tomorrow on an early shift so that isn’t going to happen, so you tell Kel you’ll see him in Billy Walton’s tomorrow about two and you walk up the hill to Westgate, pissing behind back of somewhere, a light going on and then off again.
And in your dreams -
Top of Westgate’s heaving, everyone stumbling around trying to get out of the pubs and into the clubs, taxis and last buses swerving and braking to miss people fighting and falling in the road with their kebabs and swamp burgers, pizzas and Indians, dropping them or puking them up, the police just sitting about in their vans with their dogs on their leads until some bloke in a crash helmet sticks his head through a window and some silly slag pushes a shopping trolley out into the road, the 127 braking and did-you-see-that, what-did-you-say, yeah-fucking-hell-you-fucking-bet-you-fucking-saw-that.
In your dreams, you cry tears -
Two quid and up the stairs into Raffles, bouncer a bloke you know giving you a slap on the back but no fucking discount because the cow on the door’s screwing the boss, but it’s nice to know Graham still works here because you never know what’s going to happen, which is exactly what you’re saying to this lass at the bar and she’s all right she is and you have a bit of a dance to David Bowie and a smooch to Bonnie Tyler and you remember Gareth passing out and Sarn calling you Doctor Love and you thinking thank-fucking-Christ you didn’t have any more speed.
But all your tears in all your dreams -
Her parents and brother are at the caravan for the weekend so you are queuing among the chicken bones for a taxi on Cheapside, having a bit of a snog every now and again, her legs nice and brown, fine fair hairs a little bit sweaty, and you touch her cunt in the back of the taxi, the smell of pine, puke and perspiration, and you get out in the centre of Ossett and buy a curry to take back to hers, though she’ll have to open all the fucking windows because they’ll be back Sunday lunchtime and he hates that bloody Paki smell in the house does her dad.