The other gadgie seems cooler, mair in control, n a bit less pished. — Moan then, doon thaire, n eh points tae the wee lane. They head off, and I’m thinking: Yes, ya fuckin beauty… two juicy flies gaun right intae the spider’s fuckin parlour…
Ah follays them doon and sure enough, thir tradin blows n then the less pished gadge has got the loudmouth oan the deck. He’s oan him n batterin the fuck oot ay him, pounding um in the coupon. The loudmouth’s goat his hands raised n screamin, — FUCKIN LIT AYS UP, AH’LL KILL YE, YA CUNT!
Ah pits the bag ay wine doon against the waw, n ah’m right up behind them. — Nae sense in him littin ye up, if yir gaunny kill um, ya daft cunt.
The mair sober boy turns roond, looks up at ays n goes, — What’s it tae dae wi you? Fuck off or you’ll git some n aw!
Ah gies him a grin, n ah sees the cunt’s expression change, as ah steps past him n boots his grounded mate right in the chops. The boy screams oot. The other boy jumps right off him, springing tae his feet n squarin up tae me. — What ye fuckin daein? This isnae your bus —
Ah kick him in the baws a beauty and the cunt yelps oot. He’s bent ower n trying tae crawl oot ay the dark lane, back oantae the lit-up street. — Uh-uh-uh, you’re gaun naewhaire… n ah grabs him by the hair and drags him ower tae the decked cunt oan the cobblestanes. — Apologise tae yir mate.
— But you… you kicked him in the face!
Ah bangs the cunt’s heid oaf the waw, twice, n his heid bursts open on the second bang. — Apologise.
The cunt looks fuckin spangled, n ah’m twistin his hair away tae keep the blood offay ma clathes. — Darren… ah’m sorry, mate… eh groans oot.
The Darren boy’s tryin tae stand, pillin ehsel up the waw. — What’s the fuckin story…?
— Take a fuckin shot at this cunt’s pus, ah tell him, ma grip still oan the other gadge’s hair.
— Nup…
Ah batters the other boy’s heid oaf the waw again. The cunt’s shitein it. He’s beggin the boy he was just batterin a minute ago. — Aw… dae it, Darren… just dae it!
The Darren boy’s jist standin thaire. He takes a look back doon the alley. — Dinnae think aboot fuckin runnin, ah warn the radge. — Hit the cunt!
— Dae it! Jist dae it n wi’ll git doon the road! the other boy begs.
The Darren felly punches ehs mate. It’s no much ay a dig. Ah steps forward n hooks the Darren boy in the pus. It’s a beauty n eh topples doon oan his erse. — Git up! Git up n hit um right, ya fuckin mongol!
Darren gits tae ehs feet. Eh’s greetin, n ehs jaw’s aw swollen. The other boy, ah kin feel um shakin like a fuckin leaf, ma grip’s still tight oan his hair.
Ah looks at the Darren boy. — C’mon, ya cunt, wiv no goat aw fuckin night! The Darren boy looks at his mate aw sad and guilty. — Git oan wi it, ah’m fuckin well runnin oot ay patience here!
Ah loosens ma grip as the Darren felly panels his mate, goodstyle, fuckin droaps the other boy wi a solid smack tae the chops. Ah jumps forward, rams the fuckin nut oan this Darren cunt, whae faws in a heap beside his mate. Ah’m bootin baith cunts. — Back each other up, ya fuckin poofs! Ah immediately think ah shouldnae have said that, cause it might be construed as homophobic. Nae time for aw that nonsense these days. Tons ay gay friends in California. Ye get back intae bad habits ower here though, right enough.
Thir lying thaire, groaning, burst mooths, and ah sees the other boy look oot through a bloody, crusted eye tae the Darren yin.
— Shake, ah goes. — Ah hate tae see mates faw oot. Shake each other’s hands.
— Okay… please… sorry… the less drunk cunt goes. His hand reaches oot n grabs Darren’s. — Sorry, Darren… he goes.
The Darren boy, baith his eyes slits in purple bulbs now, dinnae ken if that wis me or his mate; he’s moanin, — S’awright, Lewis, s’awright, mate… let’s just go hame…
— DMT, boys, if yis huvnae tried it, gie it a go. This disnae matter, this is jist transitional, ah tell the cunts.
When ah leave the alley, thir groanin away thegither, tryin tae help each other tae thair feet. Aw mates again! That’s ma fuckin good deed for the day!
As ah make to leave the alley, ah pick up the bag wi the boatils ay wine, breathin nice and even. Thaire was rain earlier, n the bushes are wet, so ah rub the bloodied hand on them, removing as much ay it as ah kin. By the time ah’m oot the alley ah’m no Frank Begbie any more. I’m the celebrated artist Jim Francis, and I get back to the palatial New Town home of my friends Iain and Natasha, and my wife, Melanie.
— There you are, we were wondering what was keeping you, Mel sais, as I come through the door.
— You know, I just couldn’t make up my mind, I’m afraid, and I put the bottles on the kitchen worktop and look at Iain and Natasha. — That’s an amazing selection ay wines they’ve got, considering it’s a local shop.
— Yes, the guy who opened it, Murdo, he’s got another branch in Stockbridge. Him and his wife Liz, they go on wine-tasting holidays every year, and they only stock from a vineyard they’ve personally sampled, Iain goes.
— Is that right?
— Aye, and it makes a big difference, that attention to detail.
— Well, I’ll take your word for it. I’m pretty boring these days, having shed all my vices.
— Poor Jim, this Natasha hoor goes, aw pished. If I didnae love my wife and daughters, I’d probably bang it. But I dinnae hud wi that sort ay behaviour, no when you’re mairried. Some people, it means fuck all tae thaim. But it disnae mean fuck all tae me. Ah puts my airm roond Melanie, as if tae tell this Natasha yin tae git tae fuck.
Then ah heads through for a pish, n gies ma hands a proper wash, in case anybody notices. Knuckles a bit scraped, but nowt else is a problem. Ah goes back through n curls up oan the couch, aw contented eftir ma wee fix. But the only thing that’ll pit this right is getting intae the fuckin studio and back tae work. Cause ye cannae go around battering the fuck oot ay cunts. It isnae very nice, and ye can git yersel intae bother.
29
WANKERS AT AN EXHIBITION
Edinburgh’s art cognoscenti are uncharacteristically nervous and self-conscious, filing into the prestigious Citizen Galleries in the Old Town. Within a gutted Victorian exterior with decorative facade, this functionally modern, three-storey space, with its high ceilings, white walls and pine floors, central lift and steel fire-escape stairways, is more than comfortable. But it’s their fellow clientele, rather than the premises, which is the source of the artsy crowd’s discomfort. They are in the novel situation of rubbing shoulders with the shaven-headed, tattoo-covered, Stone Island-bedecked hordes they perhaps distastefully spy from their estate cars, swaggering their way to Easter Road and Tynecastle stadiums, or to Meadowbank or the Usher Hall for a big boxing event.
These two Edinburghs rarely dally in the same zone too long for any serious cross-cultural pollination to occur, but here they are, moving through the gallery to the middle floor, united, to witness the exhibition of the work of one of Leith’s most infamous sons, Jim Francis, better known locally as Franco Begbie. Surprisingly, it’s the toffs, on their home turf, who make the early running for the complimentary drinks, the baseball caps standing back, perhaps a little unsure of the protocol. Then Dessie Kinghorn, a CCS veteran, ambles up to the bar, looks at the nervous server, and asks, — This free, mate?
The student, gamely paying off loans with a quarter-dozen jobs, is not going to argue details, and nods in accord. Kinghorn grabs a full wine bottle and a fistful of beers, turning to a group of hovering, emboldened faces and shouting: — Free fuckin ba-ar, ya cunts!