Car Stereo Chews Up Michael Bolton Tape
Big Ben chimes, Radio Times. Meant to be fucking Christmas and the telly is shite, all repeats. Stronach’s got the right idea with that dish of his. I bitterly resent paying a licence fee to those BBC wankers for absolutely fuck all. I’m feeling rough this morning, channel-hopping rough, my heid nipping. I try to light the fire and get a reasonable blaze going. I’m almost tempted to shelve my plan to get Bladesey. The fool seals his ain fate though, by phoning me up, reminding me of the Boxing Day game of tenpin bowling we’d arranged when we were three sheets the other night at the Lodge. Iain McLeod from the craft has gied me the keys for the alley, he reminds me. I was wondering what these things jangling in my pocket were.
Ten-pin bowling on Boxing Day. With Bladesey. How sad and nae-mates can you get? Decline and despondency in all I see. The house is like a toilet, there’s rubbish and smelly auld clathes piling up everywhere. Even I’m beginning to notice the Judi Dench when I come into the hoose. Those irresponsible weak suicide cases, those druggy kids and those fuckin jakeys have got a better deal than me at this time of the year. Carole wants to get it sorted. If she could only see the inconvenience she’s fuckin well caused me . . .
I’m shaking, sick and jumpy. I won’t drive today. The car stereo chewed up the Michael Bolton tape. I must get a fuckin CD fitted in the car. The thing is, you get fucked as the issue of storage always raises its ugly head. That smart wee cunt Bladesey’s gone and got one, the wee bastard. He’s roond for me early doors for the ten-pin, as planned.
I look witheringly at his CD. – I considered switching to compact disc but then I thought: storage of discs. The same rules apply, I tell him.
– Well, I um actually find that they don’t really take up that much more room than cassettes.
– No go. Storage, I snap at the wee cunt.
Then this spastic’s smiling like the retard he is and pulling out this drawer below the stereo unit that’s crammed with fucking discs. – They fit this storage unit underneath. Takes up to fifty discs, he smiles. Cock-eyed wee cunt.