So I meet Bladesey in the Guildford and we fling back a few pints followed by a trip to the Indian in Hangover Street. Bladesey has chicken korma, which is par for the course for a wee pansy like him, while I rip through that beef vindaloo like there’s nae tomorrow.
We head up to the Ritz Ballroom, tonight being the night for the divorced and separated, i.e.: slags that are desperate for it. And there they are on the flair strutting together round their handbags as Billy Joel’s ‘Uptown Girl’s belting out: all stretch marks and crow’s-feet and ragged necks and flab, but fuck it, mutton or lamb, it’s aw fuckin meat tae Bruce Robertson, rag week or no, the bloodier the better!
So we take some seats, Bladesey and I, next to these two boilers and they are up for it when we offer to buy them drinks. The dark short one has a nasty look, the look of a cow who’s bitter about men; a pseudo lesbian. Probably been with some fucking criminal type who knocked the dopey slut around and it was her own fault because she had neither the brains nor personality to find somebody better. Slags like that can’t accept home truths so they often turn dykey. This red-heided hoor though, she looks a game bitch.
– So what’s your name then?
– Michelle, she says.
– Where do you hail from Michelle?
– Kirkcaldy.
– So it’s Michelle the Fifer? I ask. The silly cow giggles, burps then puts her hand to her mouth. Fuckin sow’s three sheets. Her mate still has a sour puss on her. Don’t fancy Bladesey’s much. – So you’re Michelle Fifer? What about your pal? Is she Demi Moore?
– Naw, this hoor says, as the red-head still giggles. The women who come here are so close to hoordom, it’s a mere point of detail. Demi Moore. Semi Hoor. I like that, Semi Hoor.
– Well you’re like a semi hoor, I tell her.
– What? she says, struggling to hear over the nigger music that’s replaced Joel.
– You’re like Demi Moore, I shout.
My flattery fails to cut through her lesbian bitterness. Bladesey’s trying to chat to her, but he’s just making a cunt of himself with his actually this and actually that. I decide to steam the red-heid. – How would you like to go out some time, for a meal maybe?
– Sorry, no, she shakes her head.
– C’mon, we could have a good time, I tell her. – What’s your number?
– Look, we’re just out for a quiet drink, okay?
– Aw aye, I say, looking disdainfully around the meat market, – just the sort ay place that ye’d go for a quiet drink, eh.
She scowls at me, then turns back to Semi Hoor. That wee cunt Bladesey’s talking to the both of them. All I can hear is actually this and actually that.
I go up to the bar to see if there’s any stray minge about. I wink at a brown-haired lassie in a green dress but she just looks away in an expression encroaching on disgust. It makes me feel good, so I throw back a nip at the bar. I could handle a bit of charlie right now.
There’s a guy who looks like Father Jack out of Father Ted and he’s with a young, foreign-looking bird. I wonder how much she cost the dirty auld fucker. It makes me think that Carole had better watch. It’s easy these days to upgrade old models with newer, Eastern ones. I was reading in the Sunday paper about some old cunt who used to work for the Electricity Board who traded in his old banger for some premium fresh minge. We’re no necessarily talking big bucks either; a Ratners’ ring and a plane ticket can do the job in some instances. Of course, she’s off by the time the ring falls apart, but you’ve had your use of her by then. This bird with Father Jack kens the score; grinding up against him, fussing over him, selling illusion as well as sex. For that you pay a lot more. Virtual reality? The rich have had it for fucking years.
I see that Bladesey’s still deep in conversation. I go back over and push in beside him. – Bladesey, wee word mate . . . I say. He shifts over.
– What’s up Bruce? Nice girls eh, he smiles.
– Watch these cunts. I thought I knew them from somewhere. I know their fellas. Scumbags. Bad bastards. They catch you chatting up those slags, they’ll fuckin have you.
– Honestly? But they seem . . .
– Fuckin tellin ye man. Keep away fae that trash.
Bladesey loses a bit of interest after that. The slags go away up to dance together, ambling pedestrianly around their handbags. – Bruce, he slurs, a wee bit drunk, – mind if I ask you a question?
– Fire away, I snap harshly enough for him not to make it too personal.
– What made you join the force?
– Why did I join the force? I repeat, – Oh I’d have to say that it was due to police oppression. I’d witnessed it within my own community and decided that it was something I wanted to be part of, I smile.
I’m certain that Bladesey’s wallet is in his jacket pocket. When he hits the bogs I slip it out, removing the best part of two hundred quid which I saw him take from the cashpoint earlier. I quickly replace the wallet.
Bladesey comes back and we leave to go into the now pissing wet streets. It’s still so cold though. The winds stinging my chafed lips and I think one of my brogues is starting to let in. I nod ahead where a couple of spare fanny are making their way up the road. They look quite young but they might be impressed by the coin. Does nae harm tae fire in.
– Awright girls! I shout.
They turn round. One’s no bad at all. Again, Bladesey’s I don’t fancy. – No bad, the good-looking one says with a cheerfully defiant wariness. I’m instantly well into her: about five-five, dark hair with a fringe, a small turned up nose and lips nicely glossed. It’s always a good sign when the honey acknowledges first, because the dog’ll generally fall into line, few hounds being that choosy about what goes up them.
– Where ye off tae?
– Dunno . . . we were gaunny try tae get intae Jammy’s. She gives me a slow, lascivious scan. This lassie is out on the town with debauched intent and her pussy’s too itchy for her to be cool about it.
– Sounds good tae me. Tell ye what but, ah’m starving. Anybody fancy a curry? You’re welcome to join us, I nod at Bladesey, – On my friend and I.
– Eh Bruce . . . I’m not that hungry . . . we just had a cur . . .
– Dinnae be such a poof Bladesey. Ye kin manage another!
We go to the Balti House and do just that. This is one of the low-life curry gaffs. Everyone in the place is a munchied-up pissheid. The food would be barely edible if you were sober.
The tidy wee bird’s well up for a shag. She laughs at everything I say, and the racier I get the more brazen her response. I could sit here aw night and watch her lift the forkfuls of curry to those red lips. Almost. She’s going on about some catering course she’s doing and how she wants to open a bar-restaurant one day. The hound’s saying nothing although she seems keen enough, even with Bladesey making a cunt of himself with all his ums aahs and actuallys. My one though: she’s getting rode the night. No danger. Same rules apply.
After the meal I signal for the bill. When it arrives Brother Blades gets a little shock.
– I . . . I . . . don’t believe it . . . my wallet . . . it’s empty . . . I . . . I . . .
– C’mon Cliff, you don’t expect the ladies to pay!
– No . . . I . . .
The dog looks disapproving, but the other, the ride, Annalise her name is, says, – I’ve got money . . .
– I won’t hear of it! I insist, pulling out Bladesey’s wad and making a big show of paying.
– I’m ever so sorry . . . I . . . Bladesey stammers.
As the fanny are getting their coats I whisper to Bladesey, who’s in some distress, – I telt you about these hoors at the Ritz. Criminals can have vaginas as well as penises Bladesey. Right now they’re probably in some shitehoose of a pad in Leith with a cairry-oot of Tennents Super, Babycham and fags, provided by the generosity of one Brother Clifford Blades. I point at him, then put my extended hands on the top of my head to simulate donkey’s ears. – Hee-haw! Hee-haw! I bray at him.